The Princess Bride Affair
by ardavenport-tlneill
Summary: Napoleon and Illya are assigned to guard the life and honor of a young American debutant engaged to the prince and heir of a small, rich European country. Thrush wants to stop the marriage.
1. Chapter 1

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 1 :**** "Who calls their husband 'His Highness'?"**

* * *

Illya Kuryakin sat uncomfortably in a straight-backed chair. Behind the screen that shielded one side of the room, he could hear the giggles of his youthful charge and her companion. Miss Cynthea Gaverson, who insisted on being called Thea, was trying on her wedding dress.

"You can look now, Illya. Tell us what you think."

Obediently he walked round the screen to take a look. Miss Gaverson-Thea-stood on a small stool in the center of the fitting area resplendent in a white gown with faint rose trim. Standing next to her, eyes shining with mirth, was Janice Meyers, her hired companion. Sitting quietly in a corner taking notes-and watching visible entrances-was Leslie Goodlow, etiquette instructor and U.N.C.L.E. agent. She glanced up to see how he would handle this latest ploy for his attention.

"Well," Thea said, "What do you think?"

"It's very nice. You will make a beautiful bride," Illya answered neutrally.

"Thank you. I think it's divine." She swished her skirts at him.

"You'll be a lovely bride and a stunning princess," Janice told her. Thea giggled, stepped off the stool and flounced over to Leslie.

"What do you think, Miss Goodlow? Do you think Edward will approve?"

Leslie sighed to herself. "You look very nice, Miss Gaverson. I am sure his Highness will approve."

Thea wrinkled her nose at Leslie. "His **Highness**. He's going to be my husband, Miss Goodlow. Who calls their husband 'his Highness'?"

"You will, in public."

The seamstress stepped forward. "Miss Gaverson, I need to make a few more adjustments." She turned to Illya. "If you don't mind, sir . . . . " He retreated back around the screen.

After a few more giggles and the rustling of many layers of broche silk, lace and petticoats Janice came around the screen carrying a hatbox. The Russian shrugged back into his overcoat and stood waiting for Miss Gaverson. He preceded her out the door, knowing without looking that Leslie was bringing up the rear.

Downstairs, Fred Campbell waited in the specially outfitted U.N.C.L.E. limousine. He jumped out of the car and held the back door open. Leslie climbed into the front seat. Illya wondered if Miss Gaverson knew how many U.N.C.L.E. agents she was surrounded by. She seemed to have no idea that she was being guarded by anybody other than himself. "Where would you like to have lunch, Thea?" Janice asked.

Thea dimpled at Illya. "The Russian Tea Room, I think. Fred, do you know where that is?"

"Yes, Miss Gaverson," the driver answered turning left at the next street.

Illya left Thea, Janice and Leslie at their table and made his way through the crowded restaurant to a phone booth in the back. He took out his pen, lifted the receiver of the telephone and opened Channel D. Napoleon answered.

"We're at the Russian Tea Room having lunch," he told the American. "After that we're going on another round of shopping." A fat woman leaving the ladies' room looked at him suspiciously as she passed by and he tried to look a little more convincing about talking into the phone.

"I can see the Junior Jet Set is working you to the bone."

"How are things at your end?" Illya changed the subject.

"I'm just going over the details with Mr. Waverly. We've already got our people going over the house for tonight's little soire."

The Russian smiled. "It seems you have your work cut out for you. You'll make an admirable butler, Napoleon."

Solo briefly thought about making a comment about Illya and babysitting, but let it pass.

"We shall be arriving at about 8:30. Miss Gaverson wants to be fashionably late to the party."

"We'll be expecting her to make her entrance, then."

"I'll call again if there's any change of plan." Napoleon signed off and turned back to his superior.

"With you covering the house and Mr. Kuryakin watching Miss Gaverson we should be able to make the best of this. It's pure folly for her to insist upon this party tonight," Mr. Waverly scowled.

"Well, it **is** her last hurrah before being married off to the Crown Prince of Corica."

"It may very well **be** her last hurrah if Thrush gets through our defenses."

"As far as we know, Thrush's only motive is to stop the wedding; they don't have to kill Thea to do that, just besmirch her reputation."

"I don't believe in taking chances where Thrush is concerned; and you shouldn't either, Mr. Solo."

"Yes, sir," he answered, properly chastised.

"You'd best get going then."

The agent nodded and left.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 1**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 2:**** "They do that underwater."**

* * *

The limousine rolled up to the front of the mansion, the home of Sam Evans, wealthy industrialist and father to one of Thea's best friends. Fred got out, walked around the car and opened the door for his passengers. Thea bounced out while the others exited more sedately. Excited, she twirled about in her pink and white party dress and primped her bouffant. Janice was similarly dressed in blue, while Leslie had chosen a more conservative maroon outfit. Illya wore a tuxedo. Thea handed her invitation to the footman

"You're new!" Thea exclaimed at the butler, as he came up to announce them. "What happened to Peirson?"

"He's ill tonight, Miss," Napoleon answered. "I'm Monroe."

"Poor man." Thea stepped in, handing her wrap and purse to the maid. Leslie and Janice followed suit. They stood in a high-ceilinged foyer, the muffled sounds of people and rock music came to them from the party area.

"Monroe, you may announce Miss Gaverson to the party," Illya instructed. Napoleon glanced sharply at his partner and bowed to Thea before leaving. A moment later he escorted them to the party.

The two agents stood in the doorway while their hostess squealed her delight at Thea's arrival.

"How are the security arrangements?" Illya asked, scanning the room.

"Most of the house staff are U.N.C.L.E., the rest of the staff has been checked and there's nothing here that isn't as it's supposed to be."

"What about the caterers and the entertainment?" A nod towards the small rock band that had stopped playing when Thea made her entrance.

"They're all clean; Candy checked them out. You'll like the band, Illya. One of the singers is shorter than you are."

Illya frowned, acknowledging Napoleon's rebuttal to his previous dig, and stepped into the main party area.

"Illya!" Thea called. She emerged from the crowd with a young redhead in a pale green dress. "Illya, this is Dawn Evans," Thea introduced their hostess.

"Hi," she greeted him, grinning broadly.

The two girls each took an arm and dragged The Russian into the crowd. Leslie was waylaid by a man in a powder-blue tuxedo. "Hel-lo," he said expansively. "I didn't hear Monroe announce you."

"I'm sure he must have," Leslie said distantly. The man was Thea's uncle-Lloyd King, her late mother's brother. Leslie wanted nothing to do with him at this party. He'd probably find out soon enough that she was an U.N.C.L.E. agent when they flew to Corica together. "Excuse me," she smiled vaguely, and disappeared into the party. She hoped the man could take a hint.

Illya sat, a while later, near the edge of the dance floor at a table that gave him a good view of most of the party area. Thea was talking with a small group of friends. He spotted Leslie and Napoleon every once in a while as they drifted between the dance room and the buffet.

The band started up again with a lively dance number and Thea and a young man took to the floor. Between the bumps and twists Thea glanced his way and winked at him. He occasionally nodded back to her and munched on a cookie from the plate on the table next to him. The younger party guests came by the table to share a cookie with a friend or get a drink. The older guests gravitated toward the receiving room, away from the band. There was plenty of food, and a lot of conveniently located chairs where agents could sit and watch Miss Gaverson wherever in the house she happened to go. Napoleon had planned the layout well.

A couple of hours into the party, Candy Fallon, Napoleon's chief assistant, came downstairs from the party area to talk with the agent stationed in the kitchen. She was passed by three people in head caterers' uniforms, carrying trays bound, no doubt, for the party area. Candy let them pass. Then, letting them get a bit of a head start, she turned and followed them. Head caterers didn't belong carrying trays to the party area. They should be in the kitchen with the food. Besides, she'd met all the head caterers yesterday and those three hadn't been there.

She followed them to the dance room. Instead of going to the buffet table they split up and wandered through the crowd. 'Uh oh,' Candy thought, sensing that things were about to get out of hand. She spotted a blond head at a table across the dance floor, and pulled out her communicator.

Illya shook his head. The day must have taken more of a toll on him than he thought. He felt dizzy. His communicator warbled. He reached for it, and his world slipped a groove-everything fracturing out of focus for an instant. Shaken, he fumbled the cap off the pen. "Kuryakin."

"Illya," a female voice said urgently, "there are three men dressed as caterers in the dance room and I don't recognize any of them. I think we should get Miss Gaverson out of there until we find out what they're up to."

He had lost the thread of what she'd said after the first couple of words. Something was very wrong, he decided foggily. "Uh," he mumbled, "deal with it."

Surprised and concerned-Illya had not sounded at all well-Candy tried to spot him again; but the band had started a new number and the dance floor was full. She frowned, thinking dark thoughts about Thrush caterers drugging unsuspecting U.N.C.L.E. agents. She switched channels.

"Solo here," her superior answered.

"It's Candy, Napoleon. I just saw three head caterers in the party area. I didn't recognize any of them."

"Call Illya. Tell him to get Miss Gaverson out of there."

"I did. He told me to 'deal with it.' Napoleon, they had complete access to the food..." She heard gunshots from Napoleon's end.

"Get Fred around to the west entrance," he told her quickly. "Get some reinforcements up here; have Leslie get Miss Gaverson out of there." He signed off. She switched channels again, alerting Leslie, then signaled Fred and the U.N.C.L.E. agents in the pantry.

Illya started and dropped his communicator when the first shot rang out, ricocheting off the band's cymbals. Several people screamed. A few sensible ones dropped to the floor. The agent, not so sensible, lurched to his feet and swayed upright.

Thea. He had to get Thea out of here.

He peered around the dance floor. Haze encroached on his vision. He blinked, but it didn't go away. There was Thea; he hurried across the room as best he could to where he saw her and two friends disappear into a side room, followed by a man in caterer's clothes.

Illya staggered into the side room. Thea, Dawn and Janice stood huddled together near the window, faced by an armed caterer. The Agent reached into his jacket for his gun as the man spun, alerted by the noise the Russian made when he entered. His hand caught in his jacket and he fumbled for his pistol while the Thrush man raised his own weapon. There was a shot. Illya stared, fascinated, as the Thrush fell very, very slowly.

Leslie had fired from the doorway, felling the Thrush. She stepped up to the senior agent, who just manged to free his pistol from its holster. She gently took it from him, putting her own .22 back in her purse.

"They do that underwater," Kuryakin said illogically.

Leslie spared him a passing worry before turning to the three girls.

"Follow me," she ordered. "Bring him with you and stay down." Thea looked stunned at her suddenly changed protocol instructress. She and Janice each took an arm and led Illya out the door and into a deserted hallway.

_'A semi-deserted hallway,'_ Goodlow amended to herself, felling another Thrush caterer with a sleep dart from Illya's Special.

"Leslie," Illya said urgently.

"Shhhh," she ordered.

"Leslie, it's pointed the wrong way."

"It's all right, Illya; we will have you in medical soon. Not far now."

"He's heavy," Janice complained as she and Thea took more and more of the Russian's weight. Illya mumbled something about shoes and snow.

The four of them made it down to the side entrance with no further encounters. Thanks went largely to Dawn, who knew the house considerably better than the Thrush did.

Leslie herded everyone into the limousine. Napoleon was already there, and as soon as the doors closed, Fred took off to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.

"What's wrong with him?" Napoleon asked Leslie, gesturing to his partner's inert form.

She shook her head. "Loss of co-ordination, confusion, and God knows what else. He seems to be unconscious now." She moved the blond head from her shoulder and opened an eyelid. "Unconscious," she confirmed. Napoleon frowned worriedly and uncapped his communicator to alert the medical section.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 2**


	2. Chapter 2

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-==-==-==- Act 3:**** "Marijuana, Mr. Solo."**

* * *

A cadre of personnel, medical and otherwise, waited at the garage entrance to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. Illya was whisked off in one direction, Thea and friends in another, while Napoleon and Leslie headed toward Mr. Waverly's office.

The debriefing took some time, as Mr. Waverly sifted through reports to find out just how Thrush managed to infiltrate their careful security-Napoleon's careful security. Six guests had been wounded, only one of them by Thrush bullets. The other five appeared to be victims of panic. The only fatality was the Thrush agent Leslie had killed.

"I am curious as to why Thrush should wish to drug Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly commented.

"I'm curious as to why they'd get Illya and not anybody else. They had unlimited access to the food. They could have knocked out the whole party," Napoleon complained.

"He was the visible bodyguard," Leslie ventured, "but that should not have made him any more of a target than the rest of us. They made their attempt well into the party-any Thrush worth his salt should have had at least half you New Yorkers spotted."

The talk stopped as the door opened to admit Tanja Stanton, on night duty in the medical section.

"Ah, Dr. Stanton, you have some news about Mr. Kuryakin's condition?" Waverly asked as the door slid shut behind her.

She set a sheaf of reports on the rotating table and spun it around. "It's all there," she said in an accent of uncertain European origin. "The great horrible Thrush drug has been analyzed most thoroughly. It's a narcotic: tetrahydrocannabinol, otherwise known as THC. You'll like this bit. It comes from a plant-Cannabis Sativa."

A dawning of suspicion was showing on Leslie's face. Napoleon looked merely confused. "What's that to the layman?" he queried.

She chuckled. "Marijuana, Mr. Solo. Or perhaps hashish, since I doubt very much he noticed anything wrong with whatever it was he ate. Marijuana tends to have a distinctive texture."

"He's stoned," Leslie said wonderingly.

"Quite a bit more; it was a large overdose. He's going to have a rough night. That much THC can cause hallucinations in some people. I'm afraid Mr. Kuryakin will have to be removed from his current case."

"For how long, Dr. Stanton?" Waverly asked.

She shrugged slightly. "At least three days. It will depend on how long it takes his body to throw off the effects. He has a fast metabolism; that will work in our favor."

"When can we talk to him?" Napoleon wanted to know.

"He should be awake tomorrow afternoon. I'll have someone give you a call."

"You had best call me, Dr. Stanton," Waverly said. "Mr. Solo will be busy."

"I can give you an itinerary tomorrow," Leslie offered to Napoleon. "Or would you prefer a brief run-down tonight?"

"Both," he answered promptly.

She sighed. "You should know all this. You are in charge."

"I generally leave Illya to his own devices."

"Alright. We have, what, four more days before we leave for Corica? Thea has a whole lot more shopping to do. We have been spending most of the available shopping time in the past few days with the seamstress. Her bridal gown is almost finished; I think we can pick it up tomorrow. But there are five suits, six dresses, five ball gowns, three nightgowns, four blouse and skirt sets, and an assortment of riding and sport outfits that are in various stages of completion. That is not to mention the rest of the accessories and sundry items that she has to have before we leave."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. More than half those things were ordered by her mother-in-law-to-be. I added a few more, and of course Thea had some things she wanted. It is quite a job getting ready for a royal wedding, Napoleon."

"I see. So we're going to be shopping for the next four days."

"You will spend a lot of time sitting outside the dressing screen at Bloomingfield's; Illya did. Bring a book."

Tanja smiled to herself, leaning back in her chair. This was fun, she wasn't often involved in Section Two briefings.

"This is all being done by the Bloomingfield tailors?" Waverly asked.

"Yes, sir, all her clothes. The Gaversons chose Bloomingfield's when the wedding was announced. They do very good work on a wide variety of clothes."

"Maybe Mr. Solo should ask about their services while he's there," Waverly suggested.

"They do only women's clothes, sir," Leslie pointed out.

"Ah, well," Waverly paused to reorder his thinking. "You still might be able to make use of their services, Mr. Solo."

"We also need to visit the hairdressers, but not until the last day."

A light blinking on the communications console drew Waverly's attention. He pressed the corresponding button. "Yes, Miss Johnson?"

"Miss Gaverson has something to tell you, sir," the secretary said. "Shall I have her come up, or would you like her to wait?"

"What does she wish to say to me?" Waverly asked.

"Something about cookies, sir-at the party."

Tanja sat up and nodded her head vigorously at her superior.

"Have her brought up, Miss Johnson. Immediately." He turned to Tanja. "Do you have a particular interest, Dr. Stanton?"

"Yes sir. Mr. Kuryakin was dosed orally. Thrush doesn't generally use drugs of this sort," she continued wryly. "But teenagers do."

"You think Thea . . . " Napoleon began.

"It's possible they were available, and no one told your partner," Tanja corrected him.

"I think Thea is going to have much explaining to do," Leslie muttered before the door opened to admit the young woman and her escort.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 3**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 4:**** "We need a plan."**

* * *

A man walked quickly on the deserted New York sidewalk. He kept his hands in his coat pockets to keep warm in the chill pre-dawn air. He stopped outside of a closed flower shop, pulled out a set of keys and let himself in. He scurried to the back of the darkened store. Behind the counter he carefully rearranged the roses in a 'forget me not' display. A line of light appeared at his feet; he opened the trap door and went down inside.

A single, bored looking man in a torn caterers uniform, holding a standard Thrush rifle greeted him.

"He's in the back. And he ain't lookin' too good neither," the guard told him.

The newcomer nodded and hurried through a steel door. He found his superior, a middle-aged man with sandy hair despairingly going over a pile of hand-written notes.

"Not a good night, eh, Justin?"

"Adolfo!" The man at the desk brushed the pages aside and stood up for his friend. "It was a complete debacle."

Justin Deverel sat down and urged Adolfo Perelli, his second-in-command, to sit also.

"Not only did we fail to kidnap the Gaverson girl, we have one dead and five captured by U.N.C.L.E.," Deverel told him.

"They don't know anything of any importance?"

"No, of course not. But if we ever get them back they'll have to be processed and sent somewhere else." Justin covered his face with his hands. "Oh, why couldn't Central have asked for a simple assassination? A few well placed bombs and she'd be a teen-angel by now."

"It's a bad plan that Central has given us." admitted Perelli, tasting a cold cup of coffee. He grimaced and put the cup back down. "But you saw the printout. Gaverson would have become completely unusable if we'd killed her outright. This way, all we do is besmirch her virtue and ruin a marriage. Leaving the bank safe for the likes of us."

"We should kill them all and forget about that stupid little gold exchange in that stupid little country. You might have my job sooner than you'd like."

"I won't look forward to it."

Deverel leaned back in his chair. "We've got to get that girl. I've already sent the report in to Central." He handed Perelli another printout. "I've got to get my hands on that girl by the end of the week or my position in Thrush will be 're-evaluated'." Deverel drew a finger across his throat to emphasize the point.

"I regret that I have more bad news." Perelli pulled an envelope from an inside coat pocket. "Kuryakin was somehow poisoned at the party last night which means that U.N.C.L.E. will assign Napoleon Solo personally to look after Dorthea Gaverson."

"Of course." Deverel threw up his hands. "Why should they make it easy? My life expectancy went on a timeclock when I got this job; we're just hitting the final countdown. I should have stayed with the technical work."

"It doesn't pay nearly as well."

"True. In the meantime we need a plan." Deverel began leafing through the papers on his desk and the two set to work.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

"We've taken extra precautions so that there should be no further attacks on your daughter, and the fake caterers from last night are being questioned right now," Napoleon concluded.

"Can you guarantee there won't be any further attacks on my daughter?" Jake Gaverson demanded.

"No one can guarantee what Thrush will do, Mr. Gaverson," Waverly interceded on Solo's behalf.

"I contacted U.N.C.L.E. because I didn't want anything to do with Thrush . . . "

"And we appreciate your good citizenship," Napoleon told the millionaire.

"Good citizenship has a lot less to do with it than good old fashioned common sense, Mr. Solo. I've seen their kind before and I've steered clear of them. I called you people in when they wouldn't take 'no' and tried to horn in on my deal with the Corica gold exchange. I didn't expect to be called up to be told about what went wrong at my Thea's party last night," Gaverson challenged them from his side of the circular table in Waverly's office.

"A lot less would have gone wrong if your daughter hadn't interfered with Agent Kuryakin," Solo reminded pointedly.

"I'll talk to her about that, don't you worry," Gaverson reassured them in a less antagonistic tone. He was a Texas-style millionaire from an old-fashioned upbringing and he was a bit embarrassed that his one and only daughter was connected to anything involving marijuana. "But I don't want anything to happen to her. You hear me?"

"Quite well, Mr. Gaverson. But you must understand we cannot offer any assurances that Thrush won't attack again, so long as you insist on this public wedding between your daughter and Prince Edward."

"Well, they can't very well elope. The announcement was made six months ago. If I cancel I might as well admit to running scared."

"And it might jeopardize your new position on the Corica gold exchange."

"I don't like what you're implying there," Gaverson answered, his voice hard. He broke his glare at Napoleon and stood. "I take my daughter's future very seriously," he told the two U.N.C.L.E. men. "I want the best for her and I expect the best from you to make sure she lives happy ever after with this prince of hers. Right now I'm going to have that little chat with her." He nodded and left the room.

Napoleon sighed. "I suppose they really can't call the wedding off now."

"No, Mr. Solo, unfortunately not. Too many people are involved. However, I have just been in touch with Mr. Haaversson and informed him of last night's events. He has assured me that security will be correspondingly upgraded. He would like you to contact him before you leave on Tuesday. By then, Mr. Kuryakin should be back on active duty also. He and Mr. Campbell have made arrangements to pilot the U.N.C.L.E. jet to Corica."

"I'll call Steve tonight. I have some suggestions for Corican security, and I'm sure Leslie wouldn't mind talking to her partner again."

Waverly's intercom blinked. "We have an appointment in thirty minutes at Bloomingfield's, sir." Leslie's voice came over the speaker. "Would you tell Napoleon, please?"

"He will be with you shortly, Miss Goodlow." Waverly told her. "I trust you appreciate the importance of this change in your assignment," he said turning back to his operative. "It appears Thrush does not want to kill her. I shudder to think of what they might do to prevent this wedding. If Miss Gaverson's reputation is at all in question, then . . . "

"No wedding bells for Thea."

"The traditions of the Royal House of Corica are rather strict on that point. You'd best not keep Miss Gaverson waiting.

"And Mr. Solo." The agent paused at the door. "She is a virgin. We'd like to keep her that way."

"Ready, Miss Gaverson?" Napoleon held the door open for her.

"Thank you, 'Monroe'," Thea teased. She smiled playfully and slipped through the door. Napoleon's smile became a tiny bit strained.

"Ah, Miss Gaverson, before we go I think we need to have a little talk."

"Oh, my father already mentioned it to me. I'm really sorry about what happened to Illya. We just didn't keep track of how many he had." Thea almost giggled and batted her eyes at him.

"Miss Gaverson."

"Thea. You know, you sound a little bit like Illya."

"Thea. I think that we need to come to an understanding. I know you thought it was only a prank to give Illya those cookies, but I think it's time you realized how serious the situation has become."

"I said I was sorry. He shouldn't eat so much, you know-it's all he ever does."

Napoleon took her arm and turned her to face him. "It is not the only thing that Illya does. Last night he was protecting you from an attempted kidnapping or worse. At least he was trying to before you interfered."

Thea bit her lip and adopted a more repentant stance.

"I think you should understand that you put him, yourself and the people around you in great danger. And we're not going to have any more antics like that, are we?"

"No," She answered in a smaller voice.

"Good." His voice returned to a more cheery tone. He steered her down the hall toward the waiting limousine. "Now, what's on the tour schedule today?"

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 4**


	3. Chapter 3

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 5: ****"Higher. Sputnik."**

* * *

Illya opened his eyes and saw a fuzzy, featureless gray ceiling. He wasn't quite certain how he knew it was out of focus but he was sure that it was. A head-shaped figure appeared above him to confirm his theory. He blinked hard a few times and the figure resolved itself into Tanja Stanton.

"Glad to see you've landed," she told him with a smile. This confused him momentarily since the remark made him think that he'd been in a plane crash. But then, surely he would have received injuries that would require more extensive medical attention than could be had at U.N.C.L.E.'s medical section. Tanja produced a pen light and began checking his eyes.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You were high as a kite." He stared blankly back at her.

"Higher. Sputnik."

He continued to stare blankly.

She gave up. "Do you remember anything from last night? The party? You were body guarding Dorthea Gaverson."

That clicked for him and he tensed. "The party . . . what happened?"

"Nothing to worry about. Thrush tried to kidnap Miss Gaverson, but Agent Goodlow managed to fend them off and get everyone, including you, safely back to headquarters."

"And Thrush drugged me to put me out of the game," he concluded, closing his eyes.

"Not quite. You were drugged, but not by Thrush." Tanja continued when she had his attention. "It was hash."

"HASH?" Illya hadn't thought that any other groups would be making attempts on Miss Gaverson. He frowned at the possibilities and wondered what this 'HASH' group was and why he hadn't been briefed about them before the party.

"You were the victim of a popular recreational drug, which Miss Gaverson conveniently forgot to tell you was in the cookies you were eating last night."

"Miss Gaverson? Is she a member of 'HASH'?"

Tanja shook her head, amused. "Still not with us, are you?" She made a notation on the clipboard next to his bed. "You stay here for now. I need to call Mr. Waverly and tell him you're awake. I'll be right back for a blood test."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 5**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 6: ****"Business, Napoleon."**

* * *

Later that day, Napoleon unlocked Miss Gaverson's hotel suite, cautiously checked it, then ushered Thea, Janice and Leslie in. Thea collapsed on a chair watching Janice and Leslie pack the latest purchases in various trunks scattered around the main room of Thea's suite.

Leslie had reverted to her instructress role following the party. Thea couldn't understand it. The woman who insistently quizzed her on the proper way to conduct herself in Corican royal society, was the same woman who had calmly shot a man, and led all five of them to safety the night before.

Napoleon caught Leslie's eye and retreated into Illya's room. Leslie followed and found him packing the Russian's overnight bag before unpacking his own. "Yes?" she asked.

He set Illya's dopp kit on the bed and waved his communicator at her. "I have to call Steve. I thought you might want to listen in." She nodded and sat on the bed.

"Overseas relay," he spoke into his pen, sitting next to her. After a brief delay Stephan Haaversson answered.

"How are the wedding plans going?" Napoleon asked.

"Oh, just fine." They heard something moving around in the background. "I wasn't expecting you to call tonight," Haaversson finished.

"No time like the present," Napoleon answered. "Are you alone?"

"No, I'm with Pierre Tulloh." More movement noises from the communicator and Napoleon thought he heard a man coughing and a woman's giggle. "We were just going over the security arrangements."

"I can imagine. What specifically did you want to talk about?"

"I'm a little concerned about the wedding. The, ah, Thrush population here in Corica is higher than suspected."

"How much higher?"

"Pierre calculated it to be about six Thrush per square mile."

"Six point four-seven," a french-accented male voice corrected.

"Right," Steve went on. "The infiltration around here's pretty thick. They've got quite a few people working at the Royal Bank of Corica. They were counting on getting Gaverson on their side to sew the deal up."

"Giving them complete control of the bank," Napoleon finished.

"And control of the gold trade in Southern Europe," Leslie added.

"Leslie?" Steve asked. "What are you doing there with Napoleon?"

"Listening to your report, Steve. How many people do we have in Corica?"

"Not enough. Corica only has one agent assigned to it full time and Pierre's been trying to get U.N.C.L.E. France to do something about it for months."

"I've not heard anything about that!" Leslie exclaimed.

"As you may have noticed, partner mine, unlike our New York counterparts, our revered leader does not keep us informed of such trivial things as understaffed, overworked U.N.C.L.E. offices."

Leslie frowned. Things must be pretty hairy indeed if Steve was using such heavy sarcasm. He generally preferred blandly delivered understatements.

"I'll pass the word on to Mr. Waverly. I think he'll be very interested in your situation," Napoleon assured him.

"Just get me some more people for this wedding," Steve told him. "We can work out permanent staffs later. That's all I have for now. I'll be sending more details in the next few days.

"We'll be bringing in two more agents besides Leslie and myself when we come in on Wednesday,"

"We'll need every one. See you in a few days. Haaversson out." Napoleon closed his pen.

"The party has only just begun," Leslie sighed.

"Sounds like Steve was having a little party of his own. I didn't know he did much dallying in the field."

"This is Napoleon Cassanova talking? He is not a monk, Napoleon. And I am not his mother. I do not keep track of his extracurricular affairs."

Napoleon slid closer to her on the bed. "Well, that could be quite fortunate for us." He leaned toward her, just close enough for Leslie to catch the faint scent of his aftershave.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Napoleon?" she asked in a no-nonsense tone.

Napoleon edged a little closer. "Well, with me taking over for Illya we'll be spending a lot of time together." Leslie put up a hand to push him away but he took the opportunity to take her hand in his. "We may as well make the best of it."

Her hand lay limp in Napoleon's, her lips tightened to a line, conveying a total lack of interest. She didn't exactly find him repulsive, she'd always liked him and thought he had a pleasant voice and nice eyes; but his sweeping-her-off-her-feet style of romancing put her off. Napoleon held his position; his eyes looked her up and down, carefully reading her body language. His hand stopped caressing hers, his eyes lost their predatory gleam.

She smiled slightly. One of Napoleon's best qualities, she thought, was that he could take 'no' from a woman. He had too many others to pick from to linger on someone who wasn't interested. She decided to indulge him a little. Leaning forward so she was nose to nose with him, she put her other hand on his shoulder.

"I think things will go best if we just stick to business," she told him in a consoling voice.

"Business," he repeated. She nodded.

The door to the room opened and Thea entered.

"Miss Goodlow, have you seen my . . . oh!" Thea hesitated in the doorway when she saw the two agents together. Leslie had started and stood up on reflex but Thea had seen enough to satisfy her imagination. She grinned and then tried to hide it. "I'll go ask Janice if she's seen it." She excused herself and left.

Leslie was speechless with indignation. Napoleon grinned.

"What are you smiling at?" she demanded. His grim resembled Thea's too much for Leslie's taste. "You know what that young woman is going to think about us?"

"It's not such a bad thought," he answered casually.

"Business, Napoleon," she reminded him.

He held up his hands in surrender "You're being a little hard on Thea, aren't you?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"Hard? She drugged your partner and damn near got us all killed last night. Illya was that far," she held her thumb and forefinger up, "from being shot by a Thrush. You are being too easy on her if you ask me."

"Nobody was hurt. She didn't mean any harm. And I don't think she'll do it again," Napoleon stated calmly. He'd already had his words with Thea, knew that she would behave and didn't feel any need to dwell on past misdeeds. "She didn't know any better."

"Well she should have," Leslie stormed. "Drugging her bodyguard! People are thrown in jail for that sort of thing. Next week she is getting married and it is past time for her to learn to stop acting like a spoiled brat."

"But," Napoleon held a finger up, "that is not our responsibility. We're here to protect her from Thrush, not spank her for being naughty."

"When it interferes with our job, it becomes our responsibility. Illya is in hospital-off this case, which means you are here instead of back at headquarters coordinating security. I should think that makes Miss Gaverson's 'pranks' our responsibility."

"Well, I'm satisfied it won't happen again."

"I should personally hold you to that, Napoleon." She walked to the door, turned and smiled wryly to let Napoleon know she understood his reprimand. "If you could persuade Miss Gaverson to have dinner brought up instead of going out, I would appreciate it."

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 6**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 7:**** "Blisters."**

* * *

Illya sat stoically while Tanja Stanton finished her examination. She handed his shirt back. "I'm going to let you go." He perked up. "Go home, that is. You are to stay there until tomorrow morning, when you will report to Fred Milch in Section Three. You're on curtailed duty until you leave for Corica. I want you to report down here every day before you go home. Understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he saluted. She shook her head and left him to put his shirt and shoes on.

He finished dressing and left the examination room. In the ante room he met a fellow field agent, Max Bolest, waiting for attention. His shoes were off and his feet propped up on a pillow on a chair.

"What happened to you?" Illya asked.

"Blisters," Max explained, pointing to his feet. "Section Three is testing new communicators. I got the shoe phone." Illya looked down at Max's toes and mumbled a sympathetic response. He pondered glumly what Milch was going to have him do when he reported for duty in the morning, then left the building and headed for his apartment.

"Is that the report?" Justin Deverel asked the young woman who handed him a folder embossed with the fighting Thursh logo.

"Yes, sir. We've been following them all day. This is a summary of where they've been, and how long they stayed."

"Thank you. Send Perelli in, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

Perelli entered the office two minutes after the secretary left. "Justin?"

"Sit down. I have the reports on what Solo and his charge have been doing. We need to come up with a plan by tonight if we're going to grab the Gaverson girl before they leave for Corica."

"Plenty of time, surely," Perelli said sarcastically. He flipped through the file on Deverel's desk. "Madre Dios! What have they been doing? There are dozens of entries in this log."

Deverel picked up the file and scanned it. "Shopping, evidently, my friend. At Bloomingfields, Cothers Brothers, Deven's Shoes, Vale's, Goldman Fine Leathers, and ha! Adolfo, look at this-he took her to the haberdashery shop where our headquarters used to be."

"And that was only before lunch. There are many more on the list after that. I admire this man, Justin. So much in one day is amazing. And this is only Saturday. It is safe to assume that the next few days will be the same."

"Our agent reports Mr. Solo as being a bit ragged toward the end. The chauffeur was carrying his share of the bags. The two women with her also seemed a bit worn out. Perhaps an evening try?"

"No. Look here, there are more agents in the hotel than Mr. Solo, alarms to circumvent, and there is no suitable exit. I'm afraid Mr. Solo has the hotel too well blocked off. It will have to be during the day, Justin."

"What about the women Miss Gaverson has with her? Are they with U.N.C.L.E.?"

Perelli shuffled through a pile of reports he had brought in with him. "Here is what we have on Janice Meyers." He handed the file to his superior. "She has been with Miss Gaverson for three years now. She was engaged as a hired companion. A 'woman-servant,' if you like. We know of no connections with U.N.C.L.E., and for myself, I doubt it. She has been with her too long and there are no gaps in her past where U.N.C.L.E. could have trained her.

"The other one," he handed another file across. "She is Leslie Goodlow. She lives in London. She was born in France. British father; French mother. She has much money, and has traveled quite widely. She is what is called, I believe, a 'jet setter'. She is friends with the Royal house of Corica and they have asked her to make Miss Gaverson more familiar with Corican customs. This comes from one of our people in Corica."

"And U.N.C.L.E.? Could she be with them?"

"It is possible, Justin, but I think I doubt it. The widely traveled rich generally do not have what it takes to make good spies."

"Hmmm. It might be a good idea to keep an eye on her, just in case. What about the chauffeur?"

"The chauffeur is with U.N.C.L.E., and the limousine is well equipped. We should do nothing around the car, I think."

"No, no. Not in the car." Deverel pulled a Thrush file marked 'Bloomingfield's' from under the pile of newer arrivals. "It'll have to be Bloomingfield's."

"We won't be able to get as many of our people in at Bloomingfield's as we did at the party. The store was only our back-up plan."

"But the people we do have there are better placed than anybody we had at the party," Deverel reminded his dark-haired second-in-command. He frowned at the open file. "They don't have another appointment there until Monday. It's later than I'd like to wait to make another attempt, but it'll have to do. And I have a few operatives in mind who should be able to do a better job than that pack of gorillas at the party." Deverel produced a file folder from one of his desk drawers and tossed it to Perelli.

"Castor and Pollux?" Perelli asked.

"They're a little unusual, but I think I know where they'll fit in. Get them over here."

Perelli nodded, stood and left. After he was gone Deverel put a finger in his coffee cup and scowled. Cold again. He put it aside and began to scribble on a lined note pad.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 7**


	4. Chapter 4

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 8:**** "Off the Rack?"**

* * *

Napoleon Solo sat uncomfortably in a straight-backed chair. Behind the screen that shielded one side of the room, he could hear the giggles of his youthful charge and her companion. Miss Cynthea Gaverson, who insisted on being called Thea, was trying on a ball gown.

"You can look now, Napoleon. Tell us what you think."

Obediently Napoleon walked around the screen to take a look. Thea stood on a small stool in the center of the fitting area resplendent in a light green ball gown with sequin trim.

"Well," Thea said, "what do you think?"

Napoleon saw Leslie shake her head in disapproval at something; but Thea and Janice had their backs to her, which Leslie knew perfectly well. The gesture was meant for Napoleon. He raised his eyebrows at her while complimenting Thea on her dress. "It looks splendid, Thea. May I have the first dance?"

She giggled. I'll promise you the first dance after Edward, my father, Prince Philip, and Julius."

"Prince Julius," Leslie corrected.

Napoleon saw Thea suppress whatever comment she had intended to make. "Prince Julius," she repeated doggedly.

He thought Leslie looked faintly surprised, and suppressed a grin himself. He had a notion that Thea's attitude had undergone quite a change the night of the party, and Leslie had yet to recognize it. The seamstress stepped forward.

"We have a few more outfits to try on, sir, if we're going to get them done on time."

"Oh. Of course." He went back to his straight-backed chair as the seamstress' assistant pulled another dress off the fitting rack.

He looked up a short time later when the door opened to admit a man dressed as a Bloomingfields employee and carrying a tray to replenish the hors d'oeuvres. The man looked faintly surprised to find that he didn't need to; there was still plenty of food left. "Can I, ah, help you?" Napoleon asked.

"No, sir. I'm just a bit surprised. Usually the table's been cleaned off by this time, so I brought in some more. I guess I don't need to today."

Solo smiled, thinking of his Slavic partner with the never-ending metabolism. He knew why the man had to refill the goodies tray before. "No, I don't think you'll need to tomorrow either . . . "

Glass broke and crashed in the fitting room and abruptly Napoleon realized he hadn't heard any giggles for many seconds. From the corner of his eye Napoleon saw the hors d'oeuvres man's hand dart toward a pink cookie. Solo ducked under the tray and shouldered it up into the man's face. The cookie exploded and the man dropped like a stone. It was unfair, he thought as he rolled away from the body, it's chest covered with loose cookies and lady fingers. Thrush had tried exactly the same trick on him with exactly the same color cookie six months ago in Lyon.

He hurried into the fitting room. Janice and the seamstress lay unconscious next to the fitting stool. Thea and the assistant were gone. Leslie was groggily trying to get up, a smashed water pitcher on the floor next to her. The senior agent helped her out of the room and into the back hall.

"What happened?" he demanded.

She took a deep breath and bent over coughing. " . . . out the back . . . two men, assistant . . . "

Napoleon felt something wet and warm where he held Leslie's hand. She'd cut herself on the glass fragments. "Listen," he said pulling out his handkerchief and wrapping it around her hand. "Leslie?" She nodded that she was listening. "Check the stairs," he pointed down the hall to the right. "I'll check the elevators. Have Fred bring the limo around; we can't bring Thea out the front. Will you be alright?"

She nodded, breathing easier. "Go on. I'll call Fred."

Hoping that they had indeed headed toward the elevators, he left her and ran down the hall.

Sure enough, he caught up with them yards short of the service elevators. He ducked back as a shot came from the rear guard. He fired off a shot automatically and completely missed. His shot might have been accurate against a normal opponent but this man was about three-and-a-half feet tall. He popped back around the corner and hit the midget with his second dart. The man crumpled. The two other Thrush were encumbered by a slowly recovering Thea. He aimed carefully and dropped them too. Thea fell with them. The elevator doors, which had been held open, closed before he could get off a shot at the man inside. He ran up and helped Thea to her feet.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so." She noticed the bodies at her feet. "Oh! Are they . . . ?"

"Just sleeping. I'm using darts. They'll wake up in about two hours or so. Meanwhile, we have to get you out of this building. Come on." He steered her back the way they'd come.

Leslie pushed away from the wall and turned back to the fitting room to get her pistol and communicator. She uncapped the pen as she headed for the stairs.

"Open channel L. Fred? Bring the limo around to the side entrance. They have Thea and Napoleon is in pursuit. We will bring her out that way." She dropped her communicator into her purse, pulled out her pistol and headed cautiously down the stairs.

Several minutes later, Napoleon and Thea followed her. Near the second floor landing, Thea stopped in horror. Lying on the stairway was a very obviously dead man, shot once through the neck. He drew her gently around the body and urged her on down the stairs. "What happened?" she asked shakily.

"Judging from the spent ammunition, I'd say he tried to shoot agent Goodlow. Not a wise thing to do."

"M-Miss Goodlow did that?"

They'd come to the end of the stairway. They could either go into the second floor sales area or down a short hallway to another stairwell to the first floor. The matter was decided for them as the door down the hall opened and two Thrush rushed out. Napoleon thrust his charge through a nearby set of double doors and dove through himself into the womens accessories department. A nearby display of umbrellas caught his attention, and he stuck one through the handles of the door.

"Yes, Miss Goodlow did that," he answered Thea's question. "I sent her ahead to clear the stairway."

"But she's got a real gun!" she squealed. Napoleon put a hand to her lips to sign that she should be quiet.

"Yes, she has a real gun. I have a real gun for that matter. But Miss Goodlow's is too small to take darts and anything larger would be too conspicuous for her to carry around. And," he reminded the girl who was looking back at the doors behind which lay the body "she's a very good shot."

Eyes wide, Thea nodded her agreement.

Two nearby women stared at them; one of them smiled admiringly at Thea. Solo grimaced at her lime-green ball gown and hustled her through the purses and hats to a clothes rack. He handed her a navy blue dress of an appropriate size. "Put this on," he ordered.

"Off the rack?" she protested.

"I think your dignity can bear it until I get you safely out of the store."

"I'm not getting undressed out here!"

Napoleon spotted two men stepping off the escalator towards the center of the store. Interesting how one was able to spot Thrush from such a distance; something about the way they walked, he supposed, or perhaps it was the bulges in their jackets. They headed toward the back exit.

"We don't have any time for amenities," he told her. He rudely unzipped her ball gown all the way down her back and thrust the dress at her. Then he put his back to her so she was between him and the dress rack. He uncapped his communicator.

"Channel L. Leslie, we're about half way to the back," the hangers on the rack behind him clicked together while Thea struggled out of her gown. The Thrush behind them signaled the newcomers that their quarry was somewhere on the sales floor. A few shoppers looked quizzically at the men waving their arms but asked no questions.

"But the opposition has run a rather heavy line of interference," Solo finished.

Next to a bin of sale blouses, a Thrush spotted Napoleon. Smiling, he took careful aim at the U.N.C.L.E. agent's exposed head. Thea found the sleeves of her new dress and pulled it over her head.

"We're going to try and brazon it out - - " A dart hit his communicator, hopelessly damaging the transeiver cap. Solo dropped to the floor, dragging Thea with him. He looked both ways before he grabbed Thea's hand and made a run for it.

In the limo by the side entrance, Leslie stared at her communicator in alarm. Napoleon sounded like he needed help. Worse, she and Fred were at the wrong exit. "You heard the man Fred. Round to the back." He swung the car out of its parking space, racing quickly toward the back of the store.

"Got your your signals crossed?" he grumbled. She shook her head in irritation as she realized that she'd had Fred go to the side exit because that's where her partner, Steve, would have headed.

"Fred, remind me not to switch partners again, please? Steve is enough of a headache."

Keeping low, Napoleon carefully herded Thea around the islands of clothing toward the back of the store, wondering if he wasn't being carefully herded as well. Four Thrush headed toward them from three different angles. They held their guns under their jackets and shoved their way around annoyed shoppers.

Two Thrush came up the stairs from the ground floor and through the doors Solo was headed for. Napoleon wondered how much of a panic he'd start if he yelled 'Fire'. He heard a Thrush dart gun discharge.

One of the opposition in front of him dropped. The other followed suit and Napoleon pushed Thea over their bodies through the door and down the stairs. Their pursuers followed and two more fell, shot with darts from the gun Leslie Goodlow had appropriated from the man she'd killed on the stairway earlier. Napoleon dealt with the third. "I missed one downstairs." Leslie reported. "He got away." She grabbed Thea's other hand and led them downstairs.

"Good job," Napoleon commented. "Though I could have wished for better timing."

"That's me-Leslie 'Cavalry' Goodlow. What more do you want, bugles?" Thea stared at her in shock. Leslie hadn't so much as smiled in the week she'd known her, and here she was cracking jokes. They reached the limousine and Fred took off as soon as they were all in and Napoleon's foot left the pavement.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 8**

* * *

**-==-==-==- Act 9:**** "I'm sure he'll appreciate the extra people."**

* * *

Leslie, her left hand now properly bandaged, was on the phone in Waverly's office canceling the rest of the day's appointments.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but Miss Gaverson simply will not be able to make her appointment. Something has come up rather suddenly . . . ." She completed her apologies and hung up. She sighed audibly and her fellow agent looked her way.

"Social secretarial skills are not my forte." she told him.

"We can't afford to expose Thea to any more Thrush threats," Napoleon pointed out.

"I know, I know. It's just that I didn't exactly envision this after two years of U.N.C.L.E. training and my time as a field agent."

"Nonsense, Miss Goodlow. All our agents should be prepared for whatever contingencies their duties may require. You would do best to remember that," Mr. Waverly reprimanded.

"Yes, sir." She obediently picked up the phone to dial another number.

"How are Miss Meyers and Miss Gaverson doing?" Waverly returned his attention to Solo.

"They're in conference room 12 helping each other recover."

"Good. Now the more pressing problem is how do we keep them out of danger until we send them to Corica tomorrow?"

Napoleon held up a finger. "I think I have a workable plan." He thumbed the intercom. "Ah, George? Would the four of you come in now?" A moment later four people entered the room.

"Thrush is trying to kidnap Miss Gaverson. What better way to throw them off the trail than to give them something else to try for?"

Waverly looked at the assembled people. Carol Tannanbaum was a data entry operator from Section Three. Tina Morrey and Olga Wocial were with Section Five. They resembled Thea Gaverson, Janice Meyers and Leslie Goodlow respectively. The fourth was George Dennell from Section Four who, if he took his glasses off, might pass for Napoleon at a distance.

"You propose to pass these people off as yourselves?" Waverly asked.

"That's the general idea. I've already arranged to have Mr. Gaverson's private jet fly to Corica tonight and our four decoys here will be aboard along with the bulk of Miss Gaverson's luggage."

"I see. And while Thrush is chasing them where will all of you be?"

"Here at headquarters for the time being. We'll be leaving tomorrow morning aboard the U.N.C.L.E. jet."

"And once we're all in Corica, we'll be helping Napoleon out with the Thrush problem there," Dennell explained eagerly.

His superior looked at Napoleon quizzically.

"Agent Tulloh has been complaining about a lack of support in Corica. Since we'll be flying them over anyway, we might as well kill two Thrushes with one stone."

Leslie coughed loudly before picking up the telephone receiver, but offered no comments.

"I'm sure he'll appreciate the extra people," Waverly answered a little uncertainly. George smiled proudly, pleased at the prospect of getting out of the lab and into the field. Tina and Olga exchanged brief glances; they knew why they were there-looks alone had determined that they go. Any field skills they might happen to have were purely incidental. Carol Tannanbaum mentally riffled through her list of friends for someone who would be willing to feed her cat for the week. Napoleon signaled that they could leave and they all obediently filed out.

Leslie finished her last call and stood.

"If we are leaving tomorrow morning I should go to the hotel and pick up the rest of our things. If you'll excuse me, sir. See you in the morning, Napoleon."

A light drizzle fell on the runways at La Guardia. A small knot of trench-coated men escorted three women and one man to an isolated private jet. A few luggage handlers and maintanence men noted the activity with no apparent interest. Off to the left, several businessmen sauntered across the tarmac toward a small cluster of private jets.

One of the luggage handlers pulled a Thrush rifle out from behind a stack of suitcases. Another threw a gas grenade into the knot of trench coats. The maintenance men, in turn, drew U.N.C.L.E. specials, laying down a rapid pattern of fire. The group under attack produced gas masks, tightening their ranks, hurrying toward the jet.

The businessmen stopped to watch.

When the battle ended thirty seconds later; U.N.C.L.E. had lost two agents to Thrush's seven.

The group of ringers climbed on board the jet, gas masks and all. The plane turned, getting ready to taxi down the runway.

The businessmen continued on toward their commuter craft. Two of them lingered momentarily and then followed the others.

"It is very nice this time of the year in the Phillipines," Perelli commented.

"It is very nice there for most of the year," Deverel answered. "And there are very, very few Thrush there. You covered our trail quite well, my friend."

Perelli smiled and briefly touched Deverel's arm before they separated and boarded their plane.

* * *

**-==-==-==- END Act 9**


	5. Chapter 5

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 10:**** "...homicidal Thrush agents..."**

* * *

Illya lounged, very relaxed in his seat and tried to sleep. He was glad to be out from under Fred Milch's stern eye and back in the field. Back in the air, to be precise. He and Fred-Fred Campbell-were splitting piloting duties on the way to Corica. Right now Fred was in the cockpit keeping an eye on the autopilot. Napoleon and Thea were talking together up front. Janice was asleep in her seat. Leslie and Thea's uncle Lloyd were talking together in the seats just in front of Illya.

The conversation buzzed in and out of the Russian's hearing. Llyod King was rather stereotypically, rich, boorish man of the type that many foreigners imagined all Americans to be. The bits he heard of King's discourse related to cattle ranching. Leslie's voice added very little to the flow and when it did it tended to be in polite monosyllables. Leslie was evidently reluctant to use more impolite ones. Illya admired her restraint.

The sound of his name brought his attention back fully to the conversation.

"I think Mr. Kuryakin mentioned it," Leslie said.

_Mentioned what?_ the selfsame Kuryakin wondered.

"Raised on a farm? Mr. Solo? Really? He doesn't look the type," King responded.

"Perhaps it was a while ago. I am sure he'd trade stories about 'the range' with you. I just don't understand any of it, I'm afraid."

"And you don't mind my leaving you here all alone?"

"Alone? Lloyd, there are seven people on this plane. Go talk to Mr. Solo."

"That was cruel and unusual," Illya commented when King was out of earshot.

She sighed, turning to glance back at him. "The man is impossible. He would not take a hint if it was nailed to him. And, before you ask, there are three very good reasons for me to sic him on Napoleon.

"One: I have security layouts to read and I can hardly do that with 'Uncle Lloyd' hanging around.

"Two: Thea has monopolized Napoleon's conversation almost to her uncle's extent and I thought I would give him a break.

"Three: Mr. Solo deserves something for the cavalier way in which he greeted my hard-won and impeccably timed rescue at Bloomingfield's." She sighed again. "I harbor no illusions, however, that Napoleon will see it in quite that light."

"I doubt it also," the senior agent concurred. "And furthermore, I refuse to be implicated in any references to Napoleon and farms. The closest he's ever been to a farm was that Joille Health Farm affair we did last year. I will be directing any fallout exclusively in your direction."

Her tone of voice changed. "Here comes some fallout from the party." He looked up to see Miss Gaverson approaching. "I shall go and see if Fred wants anything." Leslie rose and left him alone with Thea.

Miss Gaverson sat awkwardly in the seat across the isle from Illya. "I, ah, I . . . I guess I want to apologize," she said hesitantly.

Leslie stood at the cockpit door, chatting with Fred.

"How are my passengers?" Fred asked after turning down her offer to fetch him coffee.

"Napoleon is listening to Mr. King and no doubt concocting an awful fate for me. I'm afraid I pulled a rather dirty trick on him. Janice is asleep in the back and Illya and Thea are having a little tete-a-tete." She glanced back into the main cabin. "Which I am going to interrupt. Are you sure you don't want anything?"

"No. I'm fine."

She left him alone in the cockpit and returned to her seat.

"Fred would like to see you for a moment, Illya," She said, pulling her briefcase onto her lap as she sat.

"I've got to go to the ladies' room," Thea excused herself and quickly stood and left. Illya smiled faintly and went up to the cockpit.

"What was that all about?" Fred asked as Kuryakin slid into the co-pilot's seat.

"Miss Gaverson wanted to apologize for her cookies."

"Oh, really?"

"I assured her they hadn't done any permanent damage," he explained. "I also gave her a few tips on how she might deal with homicidal Thrush agents by herself, should any of us be similarly incapacitated in the future. Kuryakin's two-minute lecture on activating U.N.C.L.E. communicators was included at no extra charge."

Fred gave a snort of laughter.

"How are we doing?" Illya asked.

"No problems so far. We're right on schedule." Fred stretched in the pilot's seat.

"Do you want a break?"

"If you don't mind. I think I'll try and catch a nap."

"Go on."

"Wake me for the landing." Fred left Illya alone with the controls.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

The U.N.C.L.E. jet landed in the early evening at Bonnard Airport, Corica. Illya, Napoleon, Fred and Janice disembarked after Thea and her uncle and stood to one side as a small party from the palace greeted them and, to Fred's surprise, Leslie. The short ceremony ended and Steve showed all the newcomers to their cars.

"Why," Fred asked, "are Leslie and Pierre up there with the Prince while we, senior agents all, are relegated to the chase car?"

"Leslie is in thick with the Royal House of Corica," Steve answered from the driver's seat. "That's why she was chosen for this assignment. And Pierre's the local agent."

"You mean she really does know all that etiquette stuff?"

"She would have had a difficult time teaching it if she didn't," Illya pointed out.

Fred shook his head, amazed.

"After you've worked with her for a while, you cease to be amazed at who Leslie knows," Steve said dryly. "She majored in Rich and Famous in college."

"Due, no doubt, to an exceedingly decadent and capitalistic upbringing," the Russian said with a characteristic half-smile.

"Illya, this is the last place to go all Soviet on me," Napoleon protested. "We're going to be surrounded by capitalistic decadence for the next few days."

"And how!" Steve agreed. "You should see our quarters. Leslie is next to Thea's suite in the family wing. The rest of us are in guest rooms nearby. I've got the smallest suite and it's only slightly larger than Waverly's office. All the decadence you could want, eh, though you'll be sharing suites."

"Ah, the riches of South African gold," Fred sighed.

"What's on the agenda tonight?" Napoleon steered the conversation back to business.

"Well, first off, there's dinner and then a reception with the family. I thought we'd have a meeting around nine . . . " Steve began.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 10**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 11: "It appears our Thrush friends have become more serious."**

* * *

The after-dinner reception was barely under way when Napoleon nodded that Illya and Leslie should leave to check Thea's quarters. The Russian gallantly interrupted Leslie's conversation with Prince Julius, Edward's younger brother, and followed as she showed him where Thea's suite was.

They found Janice and two maids unpacking trunks in the spacious dressing room. Thea's wedding gown had already been unpacked and stood displayed on a tailor's dummy, waiting for the wedding in two days. Leslie took Janice aside to talk. Illya wandered into Thea's bedroom, checking for Fiendish Thingies.

"Shouldn't I be unpacking?" Janice asked.

"Nonsense," Leslie said. "You have a small army of servants here to do that. The Gaversons' house staff do this for you, do they not?"

"I've always handled Thea's personal things myself." Janice surveyed the room full of trunks, suitcases, boxes and accessories. "But Thea's never had this many personal things before."

"She has never been a princess before either. Don't worry, you will get used to it. Most of this should go to Thea and Prince Edward's quarters anyway," Leslie reassured her. "And you will have time to train the staff to do all this just the way Thea likes it done."

Illya, satisfied that there was nothing out of the ordinary in the bedroom or the bathroom, wandered back in to check the dressing room.

"You want me to train the house staff about Thea?" Janice asked.

"You are the only one who really knows Miss Gaverson. None of the staff here have attended on her for more than a few days. You have to tell them what her Highness does and does not like. Did Frau Schmelzer talk to you about this?"

"Only a little bit, but that was five weeks ago . . . "

Satisfied that the dressing room was also Fiendish-Thingie-free, Illya left to tackle the sitting room. He turned in a slow circle, searching for a likely place to start. Something caught his eye. One of the several flower arrangements around the room seemed out of place. He approached it cautiously. A sturdy china vase sported a mass of long-stemmed pale pink roses. Several of the roses were wilting. "Wilting roses for a princess?" he mused. Warily he looked into the vase.

"Leslie," Illya asked a moment later from the door to the dressing room, "May I have your help out here, please?"

She looked up from the list she and Janice were consulting and handed the clipboard to the woman without comment. "What is it?" she asked when they were alone in the sitting room.

"It appears our Thrush friends are becoming more serious." He carefully picked up the vase of roses. "I suggest we take this to my room and disarm it."

In the room he and Napoleon were sharing, Illya set the bomb down on the ebony coffee table in the sitting room and went for his tools. He handed them to Leslie and began removing roses-not long-stemmed after all-one at a time from the vase. She unrolled his tool pouch and spread it flat on the end of the table. Illya removed the last rose, switched on his pen-light and peered inside the vase.

"Hold this." He handed her the light. "Just there," he moved her hand until the light shone where he wanted it. Neither of them spoke as he cautiously broke the vase to expose the detonator wiring.

The hard part past, he traced a wire and snipped it with a pair of wire-cutters. They both let out long-held breaths, Leslie switching off the light as Illya thoughtfully rolled the tool kit closed. He glanced at his watch. "We are late for the meeting. Can you find Steve's operations room in this maze?"

"He is just above us, I think. In New York they were trying to kidnap her."

He didn't let the non-secquitur throw him. "They may have changed their priorities. Let's go break the news to Napoleon."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

Victor Marton set his brief case on the table and took the chair at its head. He looked over at a slightly nervous Georg Friedriks, the head of the Corican Satrapy and also a vice-president at the bank.

"My compliments to you on your new accommodations," Marton commented.

"Thank you. We aren't quite finished yet, but we hope to have all the work done within the month."

"And in spite of the schedule changes, we have made a most efficient transfer," Werner Klemhoffer, the number two Thrush man in Corica and another officer of the Bank, announced proudly. He was a great fat German with a thin blond mustache.

Marton nodded and opened his briefcase. "I have here," he said in French, "our new orders from Thrush Central. They no longer see an advantage in kidnapping Miss Gaverson. They wish to make an example of her. We are to kill Miss Gaverson in such a way that will leave her father no doubt as to who has done it. He may still be able to gain the seat on the board of directors he was promised; but he will certainly hold no fond feelings for U.N.C.L.E." He handed each man a folder marked with the stylized thrush.

"I will tell you, Herr Friedriks, that I am not particularly fond of the idea of making an example of Mr. Gaverson. It seems to me to serve no purpose. However, I shall obey."

"I have already made one attempt, which will probably fail. But what we lose by warning them of our changed intent I hope to win back by keeping them looking for unsubtle devices."

"So you already have a plan in mind." Herr Friedriks wiped his brow and and the top of his balding head with a damp handkerchief. He and Klemhoffer exchanged worried glances. Their strength lay in stock and bank manipulations, not assassinations.

"I always have a plan in mind and in this particular instance, I have two. Gaverson is a shrewd man, well versed in the gold trade. That is one of the reasons Prince Philip is so anxious to have him on the board. He is now set firmly against us, whether we kill his daughter or not. With U.N.C.L.E. to help him, he could very well have half our people out of the country within the year. Thrush will retain no lasting hold in Corica, I think. A situation that is most inconvenient.

"Therefore I have a proposal to put before you: a way to gain something meaningful from this mess. I will need your help. You needn't worry," he reassured them. "This involves your special area of expertise as well as mine, and Central has approved it."

A pretty woman came into the room carrying a tea tray.

"Ah, just in time." Marton accepted the teacup and saucer from the blonde. "Thank you, my dear." The woman smiled and left the room.

"Now, gentlemen, if we may begin . . . . "

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 11**


	6. Chapter 6

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 12:**** "But you never did this in New York."**

* * *

Napoleon looked unhappily at the watery substance in his cup. He didn't really like tea much; but Pierre had evidently not thought of that when he ordered refreshments. He halfheartedly munched a dry butter cookie.

"So, Thrush is getting even more serious about putting Gaverson out of the gold market?" he asked, setting his cup aside.

"If the flower vase in Thea's room is any indication, yes," Illya remarked, measuring milk into his tea cup.

"And security is going to have to be re-vamped," Steve sighed. "I've been concentrating on preventing a Thea-sized package from leaving the palace. I haven't had the manpower to screen everything that might get in."

"We'll do that tonight," Napoleon said. "Illya, I want you to set up a search of everything that goes into Thea's suite."

Illya nodded.

"What is the schedule for tomorrow?" Leslie asked. "Have they changed anything?"

Steve handed her a typed sheet of paper. "This is the final schedule. Tomorrow has been re-arranged slightly, but the wedding is still the same."

She read through the sheet then passed it to Fred.

"A lunch?" he asked.

"Given by close friends of the Royal Family," Pierre told him. "The d'Cote's have arranged a post-rehearsal lunch for all wedding participants; that includes us."

"Who else does it include?" Illya asked.

Tulloh sighed. "Well, there's Prince Edward and the future Princess Thea, their parents, his brother, sisters, uncles, and aunt, her uncle and an aunt on her mother's side. The Bishop, of course; and they both have an assortment of ushers, bridesmaids and flower girls. There are also the altar boys and the choir. But those last won't be at the lunch."

"Quite a party," Illya commented, adding up available U.N.C.L.E. agents in his head.

"I thought we might have a strategy discussion at that time, after we've all seen the rehearsal," Steve suggested.

"Sounds like a good idea," Solo agreed and then turned to Leslie. "I want you to sleep in Thea's rooms tonight. I'm not ruling out kidnapping yet. Tomorrow we stick to her like glue.

"It's a good thing we sent those extra people on ahead," Fred said.

"Extra people!" Steve protested. "When I asked for more help, Napoleon, I wanted trained agents, not the New York typing pool."

Napoleon waved him into silence. "They'll have to do. There weren't any more trained agents available.

"Illya, you and Leslie go back to Thea's suite. Check it again and then tuck her in. We'll see you at breakfast. Fred I want you to rearrange the guards on the ground level . . . "

The two left the room and headed for the nearest stairs.

"I need to pick up some things from my room," she told him. "I'll just be a minute."

Kuryakin nodded and continued on to Thea's suite. He knocked on the sitting room door. Janice answered and let him in.

"Edward?" Thea came out of the bedroom tying the sash to her dressing gown. "Oh. Is there something wrong, Illya?"

"Hopefully not. I need to check your rooms again." He started toward the bedroom. "Miss Goodlow will be sleeping on the sofa in the sitting room tonight," he said to Janice. "If you could make it up, I am sure she would appreciate it."

"What's going on?" Thea demanded.

"Someone is trying to kidnap you," Illya reminded her, checking the bathroom to make sure nothing had changed since earlier that evening. Satisfied, he turned to check the bedroom.

"I know. But you never did this in New York."

"Yes I did-usually while you were busy with something else." He heard Leslie in the sitting room. Satisfied that the bedroom was also clear, he turned to Thea. "I am sorry to have disturbed you," and left to check the sitting room.

Leslie and Janice finished making up the sofa just as he completed his check of the sitting and dressing rooms.

"I intercepted Prince Edward in the hall," Leslie told the Russian. "I persuaded him that tomorrow would be a much better time to see Thea than tonight. The plane flight, you know."

Illya nodded approval and left for Steve's operations' room. If he was very lucky, Napoleon would send him off to bed. He doubted it. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

"Would you like some more crepes, Monsieur?" the pretty blonde waitress bent over to display the contents of her tray. Illya looked down at her crepes, swallowed and declined.

"But some more coffee would be nice," he told her.

"Of course, Monsieur." She smiled shyly and, after serving the other occupants of the table, hurried off. When she returned Napoleon hid his grin with a napkin, seeing the sappy smile pulling at the corners of his partner's mouth. The waitress was attractive, well-endowed and spoke french with a heavy polish accent. Napoleon rather looked forward to ribbing his partner about this apparent infatuation. Illya was often uncommonly attracted to blondes of Eastern Europeon extraction. He got positively weak-kneed and dewy-eyed over some of them, much to Solo's amusement.

Across the table Fred finished off a second helping. "Your partner's doing pretty well," he commented to Steve, nodding to where Leslie sat at one of the two large tables reserved for the Royal Family and other important guests.

"I told you she was a friend of the family," Steve answered, setting his champagne glass down untouched. "And I'd wager Prince Julius is more interested in talking football scores with Jared than in protocol right now."

Across the lawn, Leslie chatted with her brother Jared on one side, and Prince Julius-second in line to the throne-on the other. Thea and Edward, the center of attention, were talking quietly to others seated at the slightly larger head table.

Steve noticed that Thea had lost a great deal of her bubbly, girlish mannerisms and he strongly suspected that now she had gone through the wedding rehearsal, the actual fact that she was getting married had sunk in.

"Say, Steve," Fred began in a conversational tone. "Is it true about Leslie ending up naked in a fountain in Rome last year?"

"What . . . ?" Steve frowned at the American agent, mentally running through every incident he could think of that had Leslie falling into any body of water. "Oh," he said, coming up with a vaguely comparable instance. "It was a duck pond in Madrid. And her clothes were on fire at the time."

Fred didn't seem too disappointed. "I had a feeling that story was too good to be true."

This left Steve wondering what kind of gossip was filtering over to the New York office concerning his partner and himself. Before he had a chance to quiz Fred about it, however, Napoleon called the after-rehearsal strategy meeting to order.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

"I regret to report, Monsieur Marton, that the second bomb has also failed. In fact, the device was near no one at all when it was activated outside the church, and it resulted merely in soiling the clothes of one of the U.N.C.L.E. decoys sent in two days ago." The Thrush operative, a servant from the castle, stood at apprehensive attention waiting for a reaction from Marton. The man had worked with many higher-up Thrush officials who tended to shoot the bearers of bad news. He hoped Marton wasn't one of those types.

He wasn't. He smiled slightly and waved the man to a chair near the back of the room.

"That is unfortunate but not unexpected. I have a better plan at work at this very minute. I have a few other ideas also, which we will be putting into effect this evening."

"Herr Friedriks, how successful are we going to be with our secondary plan?"

Friedriks laid several folders on the table in front of Marton. "Here, Monsieur, are all the data I have been able to gather at this time. The plan is well in place and I see no real problems in its execution tomorrow. If we call all of our buyers by tomorrow morning at-" He stopped as Marton's communicator bleeped for attention.

He pulled the communicator from his pocket. "Marton."

"Monsieur Marton, an important message," the communicator said.

"What is it?" He prompted when the man did not continue.

"Central has forwarded your request for information. There is a 97.86 percent probability that the woman you requested information on is indeed an U.N.C.L.E. agent."

"Excellent." Marton put his communicator away and turned to face the rest of the Thrush operatives. "Plan K is now in operation. I expect you to carry it out this evening. Whatever the result of our attempt tonight, Plan K will stand us in good stead. I want her here by 11:00."

He picked up Friedricks' manila folder as the bulk of the operatives filed out of the room. "Herr Friedricks. You were saying we must call our buyers by when?"

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 12**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 13: "...Union of Nebraska College-Level Educators."**

* * *

Napoleon studied the crowded ballroom from his vantage point on the mezzanine. The pre-wedding reception included only a few hundred friends of the families and some of Corica's most notable citizens.

" . . . and Union of Nebraska College-Level Educators. You did that one too, right?"

Napoleon caught the phrase out of the corner of his ear. The 'typing pool' was congregating again. He'd already asked them once to circulate among the guests; but he really couldn't blame them for drifting together. They had little idea what was expected of field agents in a situation such as this. They knew no one at the party other than the other U.N.C.L.E. agents, who avoided them in favor of circulating more thoroughly.

George, on the other hand, was at the opposite extreme. If he didn't can his secret agent routine soon, everyone at the party-not just the Thrush-would know something was up. Meanwhile it was time to break up the secretaries.

"...and Underwood, Nyder, Clarke, Latham and Emmerson Ltd. That was my favorite. They were an undertakers."

U.N.C.L.E. acronym games. Of all things to be doing at a party crawling with Thrush!

"Ladies," Napoleon interrupted. "'Mix' is the word of the day. We need ears and eyes all over this party. Spread yourselves out. If you hear anything interesting, report it to one of the senior agents, please?"

They broke up looking a trifle chagrined at having failed to stay mobile. Napoleon wandered off toward Thea. Illya and Leslie were with her, and he wanted to see if his partner had heard anything.

"Better go light on the snacks, Illya. You never know what might be in them."

His partner glanced sourly from his untouched bite-sized sandwich to Napoleon's far-too-smug-looking face.

Napoleon's smile widened. He knew for a fact that Illya had picked up the little sandwich at the beginning of the reception, and was using it as cover. He hadn't eaten anything at all this evening-a fact almost too wondrous to believe if you knew the man as well as Napoleon did.

"What news?" the American inquired.

The Russian shifted position for a better look at Thea. "They are planning something," he stated.

"Very good, Illya. You'll make someone a wonderful spy some day. I know they're planning something. The kidnapping and/or murder of Thea Gaverson if we aren't careful."

"They are planning something else," He re-stated.

Napoleon dropped the banter. "What?"

"I don't know. No one has been talking around me. Thrush may be dense at times, but not that dense. There were words dropped around George, which he duly passed on to me. However, I believe the exaggerated cloak and dagger routine our friend from Section Four has been pulling has caused all conversations to cease when he comes near."

Napoleon winced. "He is rather obvious. Is there anyone they don't know?"

"Perhaps Leslie. And possibly-as Steve terms them-'the typing pool.' Leslie, however, is too close to Thea. She has heard very little. I do not like it, though. It sounds big, very . . . " Illya cut off in mid-sentence, thrust his sandwich at Napoleon and pushed past him, snatching up a napkin as he went.

The American turned to see a scene of mild pandemonium. Someone had spilled a glass of red wine down the front of Thea's lime-green ball gown. Illya had evidently decided, due to the location of the stain, to leave the mopping-up to Leslie and a slightly flustered Prince Edward.

The Russian had a young debutant by the arm, and was steering her away from the scene of the accident, assuring her that there was no real damage done. From his partner's tone of voice, Napoleon concluded that the wine dumping had been less than accidental. Napoleon took a second look at the debutant. The Russian, with one last reassurance, left her a short distance away from Thea. Napoleon moved to intercept him on his way back to Thea, Leslie and the soiled gown.

"Well, Junior Miss Thrush has certainly grown up," he greeted his partner.

"What?"

"Junior Miss Thrush," Napoleon repeated patiently. "Do you remember the Green Nite Affair?"

Illya looked at his partner and then at where the debutant had disappeared into the crowd. "That was Deanna Green? She had braces."

"She was fourteen years old."

"She refused to wear anything but blue jeans."

"That was two years ago," Napoleon pointed out. "I think you'd better be careful taking Thea to her room. I'll help the groom-to-be make excuses."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 13**


	7. Chapter 7

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 14:**** "Would you mind getting . . . up here as fast as you can?"**

* * *

Leslie stepped out of the bathroom, letting the water run. Thea was in her bedroom struggling out of her gown and numerous petticoats.

"Who was that girl, anyway?" Thea demanded, annoyed.

"I believe Illya said her name was Deeana Green," Leslie offered, helping Thea out of the last petticoat.

"Is she a friend of Edward's family?"

"I do not know. Ask Illya, he seems to know her."

"Honestly," Thea mourned, looking at the gown draped on the bed "I've only worn it five hours." She shrugged into a dressing gown. "Can you get wine out of silk brocade?"

"I cannot," said the French agent thoughtfully "However, Janice will do everything she can." She left to turn off the water in the bathroom.

"I think you are not expected back at the reception," Leslie continued, returning to the bedroom. "You can enjoy your bath and get a good night's sleep for tomorrow."

Thea frowned thoughtfully at Leslie's reflection in the vanity mirror. "Have you been married?"

"Not ever," She stated firmly. "I am not a co-operative person. Trying to live with someone else would drive both of us mad."

Thea paused in her hair-brushing. "You and Illya seemed to get along well enough."

Leslie laughed. "Illya and I were hardly living together. Work is something different. My partner and I spend a lot of time together. You might even call it a marriage at times. But at the same time, it is nothing like a marriage. Much of the incentive for getting along and co-operating comes from the outside-mostly from our boss. In a marriage, the incentive is mainly internal.

"I forgot the bath salt!" Leslie turned back to the bathroom.

"That's alright," Thea said, following her in. "I'd rather have a plain bath tonight. I think I'm fragrant enough."

Leslie held a hand up for silence, sniffing the air uncertainly. "Get out of here," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"Get out and get Illya. Now!"

Thea left hurriedly. Illya was in the sitting room examining flower vases, but quickly left that task to join Leslie in the bathroom. He came to a full stop at the door, then proceeded cautiously into the room.

"There are no wires leading in," Leslie said when he joined her by the tub.

"None that we can see. They might be attached to the plumbing."

"The plumbing? How would they know when she was in the tub?"

"What's wrong?" Thea asked

"We need to trigger it." He glanced around the bathroom and chose a tin of after-bath powder. The two agents took a step back from the tub as he tossed the tin into the water. There was a small splash and a massive, buzzing spark. The sharp odor Thea had noticed earlier became sharper. The tin burst open, covering Leslie with fine white talc powder. The buzzing continued for a moment then stopped.

Fuming, her whole front powdered white, Leslie stared at the senior agent. His mouth quirked.

"You think this is funny?" Leslie demanded.

He held up his hands, absolving himself from all guilt. "It was the nearest portable metal object. You could have stood behind me."

"What's happening?" Thea demanded.

Leslie looked at Illya. "You tell her. I need to change."

He nodded, escorting Thea out of the bathroom. "It was an interesting, and very short-sighted trap," he explained calmly. "You would have noticed it yourself, given half a chance. They ran an electric wire into the bath."

Thea stared back at the tub, horrified. Illya deftly turned her away from the direction of the bathroom to say a few more calming phrases.

"There is nothing to worry about. The trap is sprung. I am sure Agent Goodlow will let you bathe in her room. Even had she not been here to notice the ozone smell, you would have done so and called for one of us. A rather amateurish operation, actually." His monologue seemed to be having the desired effect, though he did not really believe all that he said. The trap would have worked too well if Thea had been in the tub as had no doubt been planned.

He noticed Leslie quietly leave the room as Thea calmed down. He sat in the vanity chair gauging Thea's reaction. She was taking the experience in perspective, and would hopefully have put it behind her by morning.

"Illya!" and then a soft 'thump' from the sitting room. A body-sized thump. He dived low behind the bed, pulling Thea with him, and glanced quickly through the door. He caught a glimpse of Leslie's party dress on the floor before a bullet-no, a dart-came through the doorway. He ducked back behind the bed.

"That was Leslie!" Thea exclaimed.

"Yes." He handed her his communicator. "Do you remember what I told you on the plane? Just open the channel. I'll talk with Napoleon."

She nodded nervously and took the pen. Several shots whizzed through the doorway, impacting in the canopy bed. Illya sprang up near the foot of the bed and fired to keep heads down while he got a look at the situation. Not good. He couldn't see anyone, not even Leslie now. She must have been moved, which placed at least three people in the sitting room. He ducked back behind the bed and took the communicator from Thea.

"Illya!" Napoleon's voice demanded. "What's going on?"

"I have company in Thea's suite. They have Leslie. We're pinned behind the bed. There are at least three of them in the sitting room. They are using darts," Illya reported succinctly.

"Darts?"

"I report what I see. Would you mind getting . . . " He threw himself on top of Thea as a small black object struck the bed. There was a loud 'Whumf!' and feathers from the down comforter blew around the room. " . . . up here as fast as you can?" He finished breathlessly, rolling off Thea and motioning her to keep down.

"I'm on my way." The connection went dead.

"That was a bomb," Thea said dully.

"A small one, yes." Illya popped back up for a few more shots. He was lucky. He caught one of the Thrush just throwing another explosive. The man crumpled. The explosive discharged more or less harmlessly in the middle of the room.

"What was . . . ?"

"Keep down," he ordered, ignoring the slight tone of panic in her voice. There wasn't any time to calm her now.

Illya glimpsed the Thrush throw something in their direction then dart away. The projectile collided with the curtains on the bed's canopy and landed in the middle of the remains of the mattress. Blue smoke boiled out of the mini-grenade.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

A thin man in evening clothes ran out of Thea Gaveson's suite and neatly collided with a dart from Napoleon's Special.

Solo and Pierre hopped over the body and took positions on either side of the door just inside the sitting room. After scanning the empty room, they moved to the door of the bedroom with Fred following, covering their backs.

"Illya?" Napoleon called. He heard coughing coming from behind the wreckage of a blue canopy, as The Russian helped Thea to her feet. Napoleon and Pierre helped them the rest of the way into the sitting room.

"The rooms are clear," Fred told them from the bedroom door.

Steve skidded to an anxious stop inside the sitting room. "Leslie?" he asked.

Illya shook his head, coughing briefly before he could answer. "She was captured . . ." cough, cough " . . . they were using darts."

"We'll get her back, Steve," Napoleon reassured.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 14**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 15:**** "She's wearing a transmitter."**

* * *

"You can't go, Steve," Napoleon insisted. "I need you here. You're the security expert, you know the layout. Besides, if something went wrong, Thrush can get more out of you than Leslie could possibly tell them." He pressed all his points in at one time, trying to force Steve to back down. He knew, however, that if it had been Illya captured Solo would be equally anxious to go.

"You don't know her, Napoleon. You've only worked with her for a few days. She told me about what happened at Bloomingfield's. You wouldn't have had that problem with Illya, and if it had been me, I would have been at the side exit. There's too much room for error. You don't know how she thinks."

"I disagree," Illya broke in. Thea was in Leslie's bedroom with Janice and one of the 'typing pool,' while the U.N.C.L.E. agents briefed in the sitting room that came with the suite. "Or, rather, I think you are arguing the wrong point. She needs to be rescued; we must get her out. That does not require any co-operation on Leslie's part."

Steve looked from one to the other of Waverly's top team. "I need you here, Steve," Napoleon said.

"Alright," he sighed. He pulled a file out of the briefcase he'd brought with him. "My briefing says Thrush's headquarters is housed in the Maison de la Chatte near the train station."

"No," Pierre interrupted. "They are in the process of moving. They have not moved entirely to their new headquarters, but they know that we know about le Maison de la Chatte and so I do not think they will take her there."

"Where have they moved to?" Napoleon asked.

"If I had known that, Napoleon, I would have said so at once."

"What do you know?" Illya asked.

"Very little, actually," Tulloh replied with an apologetic glance at Steve. "I discovered that they were moving a week before we began the preparations for security for the wedding. I tried, but I could not find where their new headquarters was going to be. I am afraid they know me too well."

"Why wasn't that in my briefing?" Steve demanded. "I thought they were safely ensconced in a bordello."

"I sent the report to M. LeSalle. I have kept the French headquarters fully informed of what goes on in Corica. I had hoped," Pierre continued pessimistically, "that I would receive some more assistance."

Napoleon frowned ominously. "We will deal with that later. Right now Leslie needs our help."

Illya turned to Steve. "What kind of help can we expect from Leslie? What sort of equipment is she carrying?"

The Canadian thought for a moment. "Most of what she had was in her purse. But there might be something else. Let me check her things."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

Pierre tried to tell himself that he was not in a woman's bedroom pawing through her underclothes; but Steve had meant it quite literally when he spoke of going through Leslie's 'things.'

Napoleon gingerly set aside a garter that contained an explosive charge, not quite sure what to make of it. Evidently, the places a female U.N.C.L.E. agent could hide bits of equipment were more varied than her male counterparts.

Haaversson was trying to determine which bra Leslie had worn to the reception. Illya was in the sitting room with Janice and Thea, getting ready to spend the night on the sofa, and keeping the two women preoccupied.

Steve nodded decisively and turned to Napoleon. "She's wearing a transmitter. I had hoped so, she has more transmitters than other equipment. Let's check the frequency."

Pierre, relieved that their indelicate task was completed, followed the other two out.

Upstairs in the operations room, Steve futilely fine-tuned the frequency. Napoleon glanced at his watch. "It's only been twenty minutes, Steve. She's probably still unconscious." He looked at Pierre, formulating a plan of action. "How easily can she turn on the transmitter?"

"She's switched it on while tied up before," Her partner answered. "She told me once they had her practice in a straight-jacket in Paris. I'd say if she still had it, she could turn it on when she wakes up."

Napoleon thought briefly. "Unless they strip-search her, I doubt they'll discover it. But I don't want to bank on that. We'll start at the bordello. There may be something there, even if they have moved. You stay here and watch the receiver, Steve. Get George to help you triangulate. Call us as soon as there's a signal. Come on, Pierre."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

"Hold the window Napoleon; it does not want to stay open."

Solo held the the window open while Pierre climbed the rest of the way through.

"Convenient that this room is unoccupied," he commented once they had both vacated the roof and were inside the small, darkened bedroom.

"Most of the girls avoid this room." Pierre patted the mattress of the double bed. "The bed squeaks."

Napoleon wondered briefly just how intimate Tulloh was with the inner workings of Maison de la Chatte, but saved the question for later. "Where to now?"

Tulloh led the way to the door. "In the basement. There's a back stairway."

The two crept down the dimly lit hallway. They encountered nothing but muffled moaning and groaning from some of the closed doors. They found an equally poorly lit spiral staircase at the end of the hallway and descended, their feet clanging softly on the metal steps.

At the first floor they passed a partially opened door. Pierre frowned at it. They heard the soft sounds of music, and the air smelled faintly of wine and perfume. A drunken patron wandering about on the first floor nearly spotted them. Quietly, they slipped past the door and continued downward. Pierre held up his Special, halting their progress and signaling caution.

But they found no resistance at the bottom of the stairs. Likewise, to Pierre's astonishment, as they investigated each room they found nothing except the remains of a complete evacuation.

"I do not understand," He said. Napoleon looked up from his perusal of the room. "Why have they left so quickly?"

The room they were in was like the others they'd seen, gray and empty. Its corners were full of dust balls that had been revealed by the recent removal of Thrush equipment. Dead electrical outlets and clean rectangles of wall space lined the perimeter of the room.

"This is Thrush. They can uproot a fifty man command post in three hours."

"Not in Corica," the Frenchman answered. "They think themselves safe here. They started this move three weeks ago, Napoleon, and there was no indication that they would be finished until next week."

"You're sure?"

"I have a 'liaison' with one of the women here. I would have asked her help tonight but I do not want to involve her in this. She is probably working tonight, anyway."

"Why would they move up the departure date?"

"I do not know. I was not expecting them to move out so completely. This is a good location, non? Lots of people coming and going, staying for irregular periods of time. Strange things happen and all the neighbors look the other way. I would have expected them to maintain a secondary base here. But, no. There are no sentries, they leave their doors unlocked, there is no activity at all. It makes no sense."

"That's all we need, another mystery. I suggest we keep looking for any clues that might tell us where they're holding Leslie Goodlow."

"Oui," Tulloh agreed. The two continued their search.

They were looking through the last few rooms when Napoleon's communicator beeped.

"Solo here," he answered.

"I've got Leslie's signal."

"Where is she?"

"George and I got a good triangulation from the palace. She's at the bank." Steve's voice sounded surprised.

"The bank?" Napoleon repeated dubiously.

"She's at the Royal Bank of Corica."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 15**


	8. Chapter 8

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 16:**** "Redecorating?"**

* * *

Leslie opened her eyes and raised her head. She was in an almost completely bare room. Along the base of the stone walls, drilled holes were spaced at regular intervals. Aside from small piles and lines of work dust the room was relatively clean. Behind her, she heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back and an unshaven man walked around to take a look at her. He grunted something in German that she didn't understand, and left the room. Evidently he had been posted to watch her and report when she awoke.

He had been there ever since Leslie awakened to the smell of his cigarettes. His presence had made it doubly difficult for her to set off her transmitter while maintaining the pretense of still being unconscious, but not impossible. Now that the transmitter was activated, she could stretch her muscles (as much as her bonds would allow) and relax. Her shoulders were beginning to cramp from the tiny, controlled movements needed to set off the device in her bra.

There were people speaking in the hallway and she strained to hear them. It gave her something to keep the apprehension away. She had been captured a few times before in the past, but never by Thrush. As yet, she had no idea why they had done so. It just might be that they'd mistaken her for Thea, but she doubted that. Much more likely that they wanted information. Information that she could not, must not, give them.

She heard the door open and caught another snatch of conversation before she was addressed.

"Ah, Madamoiselle Goodlow," a voice from the door behind her said in French. So much for the theory that they had mistaken her for Thea. "It has been quite a while since I have had a pleasure such as this." The man walked into her line of sight. She did not recognize him. "My name is Victor Marton. I apologize for the poor accommodations, but perhaps for this kind of thing it is best, non? I would like to discuss the security arrangements for the wedding, please."

She looked up at him standing above her. "I do not know the security arrangements for the wedding." She let a small note of fear tinge her voice.

"Come, come, Mademoiselle. Surely as an agent of the U.N.C.L.E. you have access to such information."

"No. I do not know what you ask."

He sighed. "Well, I cannot say I am surprised at your answer. I had held a small hope that we would not have to resort to this, but . . . " He drew a small flat syringe case from the breast pocket of his jacket. Leslie took a deep breath.

_'Now,'_ she thought to herself, _'would be a good time for Steve to show up.'_

"It is true, Monsieur. I know nothing of the security arrangements. Nothing!"

"Then you have nothing to fear. If you are telling the truth, you will have lost a few hours from your life and have a headache-nothing more. But I think you do know." He slid the needle into her arm. "It will take a minute to feel the effects, and then you cannot lie to me."

That wasn't quite true, Leslie thought sluggishly as he started to question her a minute later. She found she could lie to him. All thoughts of rescue, however, faded in the struggle for her to keep her brain the necessary step ahead of her mouth.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

Napoleon ducked back behind a corner as someone left a room up the hallway. He motioned Pierre to freeze, and stood listening for the hall to clear. This was the third set of rooms they had checked, but the first time they had encountered any people. From what they had seen, the Thrush areas of the bank were almost as abandoned as the bordello.

"Non," said a voice in French, "she is giving us nothing but gibberish. Further questioning would be fruitless right now. We shall resume in an hour or so . . . "

Napoleon recognized the cultured tones.

"Victor Marton," he whispered to Pierre after the Thrush had left.

"You know him? He is not part of the Corica satrapy."

"Definitely. He's a top Thrush official and no doubt the person who set the fire under the local fowl to move out of 'Le Chatte' so fast."

"That may be so. But why have they moved out of here as well?"

"Redecorating?" Napoleon suggested, and started down the hall. Pierre followed.

The door Marton had left was locked until an expertly placed magnesium 'skeleton key' opened the door for them. Beyond it they found Leslie Goodlow tied hand and foot to a heavy oak chair.

"Leslie?" Solo lifted her head, checking her eyes.

"Je ne sais pas," she slurred back at him. He let her head drop, taking out a knife to cut the ropes. She continued mumbling the same phrase over and over as Pierre and Napoleon worked quickly to untie her. Tulloh put his hands under her arms and helped her stand. They walked her to the door.

"Shhhhhh," Napoleon tried to quiet Leslie while they crept down the hallway. Pierre put a hand over her mouth when gentle persuasion failed.

"Ah!" Tulloh jerked his hand away from her mouth when they were near the window through which they had entered the bank. "Sorry," he apologized. "She bit me." But the hand had evidently worked. Leslie was no longer talking. She seemed to be asleep.

They hauled her through the window and out to the car. They managed an almost clean getaway. As Napoleon was opening his door, there was a shot from the bank. The bullet plucked his sleeve as he slammed the door behind him and started the engine, quickly leaving the area.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

Steve and Illya looked up from their card game as Napoleon and Pierre entered the room supporting Leslie. Steve rose and went over to check on his partner's condition, helping Pierre seat her in a chair.

"She is alright, Steve," Pierre assured him. "Just groggy from the drugs. She should sleep now." He nodded toward the bedroom.

"Thea is in Leslie's bed," Illya reminded the Corican agent.

"She can sleep in my room. There are two beds," Steve said. "Come on, Leslie. Can you walk?"

Leslie stood shakily and Steve gave her a hand out the door.

"Come back here when you've got her settled in," Napoleon told him. "We've got a problem to discuss."

"What kind of problem?" Illya asked, closing the door behind the agents from England.

"You like puzzles, Illya." Napoleon answered.

"Sometimes," his partner answered warily, looking at his watch. "Rarely at two-thirty in the morning."

Napoleon sat down and waved Pierre to a third chair. "Well, you don't have to solve this one; I think Pierre and I already have. But I want to hear your thoughts on it before I call Waverly."

"On what?"

"Facts first. Add this to what you already know about that 'Something Else' Thrush is planning. They have moved out of the bordello base entirely. Pierre here has reliable information that they hadn't planned to finish the move for another week."

Tulloh nodded his agreement to Solo.

"They were moving into the back of the Royal Bank of Corica; but all of a sudden, they're not there either. Gone. Poof. Vanished. Pierre and I walked into and out of that base encountering only a few guards."

"We also saw some of the rooms," Tulloh interjected. "There is very little equipment left in them. The equipment from the bordello was installed, but now it is gone."

"The bank was a good base," Napoleon continued. "We didn't have them pegged until they grabbed Leslie. Why should they leave?"

Illya nodded thoughtfully. "Anything else?"

"That should be enough," Pierre told him.

Napoleon ignored the Frenchman. "Just one more thing. The man interrogating Leslie was Victor Marton."

"Marton?" Illya stared past Napoleon, thinking. "He would be the one behind what they are planning," he mused half-aloud. "He's a high level Thrush, and smart. He would not be here for a simple assassination."

Napoleon waited, confident that the Russian would come to the same conclusion he had. He stood, yawned and took off his jacket, giving his partner time to think. Illya glanced sharply at the jacket and took it from the chair where it had been tossed. Silently, he turned it around and pointed to a tiny metal object the size of the head of a hatpin. A microtransmitter.

The door opened and Steve walked in. "She's asleep. And she'll stay asleep until someone drags her out of bed. She always does."

"You get to drag her." Napoleon said, motioning his partner to destroy the transmitter. He didn't have time to devise a convincing ruse for Thrush.

"I would like to see that," Illya commented, placing the transmitter on the floor. "Good morning Monsieur Marton." He stepped on the transmitter, grinding in under his shoe.

Steve looked from Illya to his shoe. "Ya shouldn't otta have done that, tovarsich. Now he'll be angry."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

Victor Marton looked from the receiver in front of him to Herr Friedriks, who had also been listening to the conversation between the U.N.C.L.E. agents. Victor Marton thought very uncomplimentary thoughts at a certain Russian agent.

"I have developed an instinctive dislike for that young man, Herr Friedriks," Marton said in a very controlled voice.

"Yes, sir."

"Is everyone here?"

"Yes, sir. We are ready to go into operation in four and one half hours. Everything is ready."

"Good. I will see you and Herr Klemhofler here at 6:45. Goodnight."

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

"So, now that we're alone again, what do you think of our facts, Illya?" Napoleon asked in the sitting room.

"Your facts are disquieting. I gather that you want me to come to a conclusion."

"By all means, conclude."

"For me, too, eh" Steve requested, sitting on the sofa. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Very well. I conclude that Thrush has planned something of very large proportions. I further conclude that it involves the bank."

"Brilliant," Napoleon commented. "I could have told you that this morning."

"I have not finished yet. Kindly stay silent until I have," Illya instructed in mock annoyance before going on.

"Knowing Marton, whatever it is, is subtle and audacious. The last brief that Pierre filed contained several names of Thrush officials on the staff of the Royal Bank of Corica."

"On the board of directors, there are two Thrush," Pierre said.

"And four others in the bank itself. If Thrush is no longer at the bank headquarters, I think they have finished whatever Marton had planned and left the country. The bank is in very large trouble." Illya leaned forward, eyes on his comrades. "We should direct some of our energies there."

"That's pretty much what Pierre and I concluded. I'm not willing to rule out another attempt on Thea's life yet, though," Napoleon told them. "Marton has tried very hard to kill her. I think he'll try again, so we'll have to stay with her all the way to the honeymoon boat tomorrow. But Illya's right, we have to check out that bank. But we can't search the bank and guard Miss Gaverson at the same time. We're going to need help."

"The French office is closest," Pierre said dubiously.

"We're not going to go through the French office. The boat is coming from Genoa; we'll get people from there."

"The boat is on its way," Steve told him. "It should dock anytime, if it hasn't already. There are two of our people on board and no Thrush that they can tell."

"We can still get people flown in from Genoa tonight. Pierre, go wake up Prince Philip; we've got to have him in on this. He may want to pull Gaverson in too, but I'll let him make that decision." Napoleon pulled out his communicator while Pierre left to wake up the Prince.

Napoleon glanced at his watch. Only nine yesterday night in New York. Waverly should still be there. "Open Channal D. Connect me with Mr. Waverly, please."

"Waverly here, Mr. Solo. It's rather early in the morning for you. Don't you have a wedding to attend in the morning?"

"Yes, sir, but something has come up," the American told his superior. Quickly he outlined what he and Pierre had found at the bank and the conclusions that they and Illya had drawn. Waverly agreed.

"We'll need some more people to help out at the bank."

The door opened and Pierre walked in with a the Prince in tow. He wore a red silk robe over his bedclothes and his expression was neutral for a man who'd been woken up in the middle of the night. The group rose to acknowledge his presence. Napoleon continued to talk.

"I want to pull them from the Genoa office. I know it's not the closest, but . . . "

"Yes, Mr. Solo, I am aware of the problem. I will contact Signor Martinelli immediately. Your reinforcements should be there in three hours."

"Reinforcements for what?" the Prince asked.

"Who is that, Mr. Solo?"

"Prince Philip, sir. If we're going to check out his bank, we're going to need his permission."

"Quite. Was it necessary to wake him at three in the morning?"

"Is that Mr. Waverly?" Prince Philip asked.

"Yes, your Highness. Would you like to speak with him?"

"I would like an explanation."

"I have another call, Mr. Solo. You have full authorization to use whatever means you consider necessary to resolve this problem. With Prince Philip's permission. I will call Signor Martinelli and arrange for assistance." Waverly signed off.

Napoleon looked around the room. Five people were too much. "Your Highness, I would like to explain the situation somewhere further from where Miss Gaverson is trying to sleep." The Prince nodded. Napoleon turned to the other agents. "Illya, I want to see you at 6:30. Steve, Pierre, 7:00. Go to bed. Your Highness, shall we adjourn to my room, or is there somewhere else you would rather talk?"

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 16**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 17:**** "That information is classified."**

* * *

At the same time in the same part of that wing of the palace another sort of spy business was going on. Thea couldn't sleep. She was nervous about her marriage tomorrow, and more than a little upset from the attack earlier that evening. She had gotten up quietly, careful not to disturb Janice, to listen at the door.

Napoleon and Pierre were back, and though she couldn't hear what they were saying, they didn't sound worried. She assumed Leslie must also be back and safe. Thea waited until everyone had left the room and all was quiet. She opened the door, mindful not to wake the woman on the cot.

"Can't sleep?" Illya asked from the couch when she was halfway across the room. Thea jumped. She didn't try to explain what she was doing. She just frowned at him, annoyed at being caught.

"The palace can be a dangerous place for a young lady to go wandering about at this time of night. Or do I need to remind you about what happened a few hours ago?" he added when it looked as if she were going to make light of his warning.

"I just wanted to know what was happening with Miss Goodlow."

"She's well and gone to bed. Which is where you should be." He got up to escort her there.

"Have you ever been married?" she asked quickly. He stopped. surprised by the question. "I mean, you're wearing a ring," she pressed.

"That information is classified."

She almost laughed. "Oh come on, you're kidding." His expression didn't change. "You're not kidding," she answered herself. She swallowed and went on.

"I just wanted to ask what it was like. I know what I'm supposed to do to be a princess, and I know what goes on on the wedding night." The revelation of her adult knowledge didn't seem to impress him. She quickly left the subject. "But I don't really know what it's like to be married. I was going to ask Miss Goodlow, but . . . ," she let the sentence dangle, hoping that he'd fill in her question.

"I think that your father would be better equipped to answer that."

"I asked him. He gave me advice. He didn't want to talk about when Mom was alive."

"You don't have any friends you could ask? Miss Meyers, perhaps?"

"Janice isn't married. None of my friends are married." He remembered the mostly teen-aged crowd that had shown up at her going-away party and realized that this was perhaps true. "I just want to know what it's supposed to be like," she went on. "It's so freaky, me being a Mrs. Somebody. Like getting old or something."

Illya looked down at her and wondered what she really wanted to know. He didn't dislike Thea at all but he did dislike handing out advice; and he doubted that anything he could say would be of any help to her.

"Why don't you ask Prince Edward that question?"

"But I'm marrying him!"

"Then he should be able to tell you what it's like to be married to him."

She stared back at him, as if he were making fun of her so he elaborated. "What I mean to say is that since you will be married to Prince Edward, now would be a good time to start talking about how you'll be living together."

Thea stared back at him in wonder as if having an actual conversation with her soon-to-be-husband was a novel idea. Illya started to steer her toward her door.

"So, you think I should talk to Edward about it?" she repeated. He nodded firmly. She stopped at the door to her bedroom.

"Uh, thanks, Illya. For everything." He very quietly opened the door for her.

"Try not to wake up Miss Meyers," he told her.

"Good night," she whispered before closing the door.

Illya went back to the couch.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 17**


	9. Chapter 9

**THE PRINCESS BRIDE AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 18:**** "God, I hate Wagner."**

* * *

Napoleon was seating guests on the bride's side of the cathedral. The night before had been spent in conversation. He'd received permission from the Prince to deal with the situation the way he wanted to. Then Martinelli had called. After him, Waverly called again to update Napoleon on measures that U.N.C.L.E. was taking, and to find out what measures Solo was taking. Then he'd gone to bed. For one whole hour.

That morning, the people from Genoa arrived and had to be briefed, followed by Steve, Pierre, a still slightly groggy Leslie, the 'typing pool,' Fred, and the Prince again.

Before all of that, he and Illya had a two-man strategy session. It was decided that Thrush would be expecting four people at the wedding: he and Illya, Pierre and Leslie. And any fewer people at the church would attract suspicion. So they stayed with the wedding party while Steve led the Italian reinforcements at the bank. They would call if anything major came up.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

Kuryakin seated Leslie in the pews with her family. She was worried about something and still rather light-headed. "Like when I have taken codine," she had told Steve when he'd asked her how she was feeling.

They'd sent most of the decoys from New York with her partner. George Dennell was a good technician, if nothing else, and Carol Tannenbaum had a reputation with data retrieval that few could match. Illya hoped they weren't too late.

Pierre scanned the cathedral, checking to see that everyone was in place. Napoleon and Illya were seating guests with the rest of the ushers, and looking rather tired. One of the Section Five women from New York was in a robing room in the back with Thea and Janice, putting the final touches on the bridal gown. Pierre was stationed near the front of the cathedral with the Groom and party. He glanced over to the far side of the room to see Illya seating Leslie next to the aisle with her parents and younger brother. He saw her say something to her mother and lean back in the pew.

"Are you feeling well, dear?"

Leslie straightened in her seat and collected her thoughts enough to reassure her mother that she was, indeed, well. _'Mostly well'_, she amended to herself. She was still feeling mild effects from the interrogation the night before, and something was bothering her. She couldn't put her finger on what it was, though, and that bothered her even more.

She saw Illya take his place near back of the cathedral on the Bride's side. The guests must all be seated now. She turned to face the front expectantly, waiting for the ceremony to start.

The wedding march began. It was Wagner's Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin. _'God, I hate Wagner,'_ she thought. She had once played the triangle in the orchestra at Bayreuth for two weeks, where she was forced to endure multiple performances of Der Meistersinger, Lohengrin and the interminable Ring Cycle. The Ring Cycle had been the worst. It was twenty hours long, played in four parts on successive nights. Its only saving grace was that it couldn't be performed all at once.

Over the heads of the people between her and the center aisle, she saw the last bridesmaid pass. She heard the shuffle of a whole church full of people moving in unison, and obediently rose with them.

As Thea made her way down the aisle, Leslie stared straight ahead, trying to figure out what was bothering her, while the people around her turned to get a first look at the bride.

Thea passed her pew, continuing up the aisle toward the altar where she was met by Prince Edward. The Bishop, the fathers, best man and the ring bearer took their places. The music stopped. Leslie, still thinking of Wagner, fixed on the young boy holding the wedding rings on a red velvet pillow.

'We've already prepared the ring. Why do we need this one?' a nameless Thrush flunkie had asked Victor Marton outside her cell just before he'd entered and begun the interrogation.

"The wedding ring," she told herself aloud. Turning, she spied Illya hovering near the back of the cathedral and signaled him. Without explanation she slipped out of the pew and hurried back to meet him. The Bishop was beginning the ceremony.

"Thrush has tampered with the wedding ring," she told him when they met. "I heard it last night before they questioned me. That is what I have been trying to remember."

"Oh that's just great." Illya shook his head, then looked for Napoleon. The Bishop paused and the choir began a hymn.

The American had seen their activity and was looking their way. Illya signaled him and they circled around the back of the room to meet him where they shared the news.

"Oh that's just great," Napoleon answered. Leslie wondered how long these two had been partners. The three of them as discretely as possible crept to where Pierre was watching.

"We can't just stop the ceremony and take the ring," Pierre said when they'd explained the problem.

"We don't necessarily have to stop the ceremony to get the ring." Napoleon scrutinized the wedding party, then turned to his partner.

"Illya, give me your ring."

Illya frowned briefly, recognizing his partner's plan. Very reluctantly he handed the American the wedding band he always wore.

"It will fall off," Pierre said pessimistically.

"You'll get it back, I promise." Napoleon turned and walked inconspicuously up to the wedding party.

"What if they have tampered with both rings?" Leslie wondered half-aloud.

The American stopped behind the young boy. From this vantage point he could see both rings quite clearly. There was a very small imperfection on the inside of Thea's ring. He reached to exchange her ring with Illya's. The choir stopped. He froze. Now the attention of the entire Cathedral full of people was directed at the wedding party. Prince Edward stared at him quizzically over Thea's head. Napoleon smiled nonchalantly and completed the switch, pocketed Thea's ring and stood uncertainly behind the ring bearer.

The Bishop started speaking.

The agent edged away from the wedding party. Slowly, he made his way back to where Illya, Leslie and Pierre stood.

His pen bleeped.

The Bishop paused briefly at the intruding sound but went back to the ceremony when Solo shut it off. He finished his retreat.

"Solo here," he answered when he was safely out of the echo chamber where the wedding party was intensely not acknowledging what had just happened.

"I trust the wedding is proceeding as planned, Mr Solo?" Mr. Waverly asked.

"It's right on schedule."

"Well at least that's going well. I'm afraid I have rather bad news for you. It seems you were right about Thrush being up to something."

"Oh?" The other agents crowded around to hear the news.

"It is a bank holiday in Corica because of the wedding, is it not?"

"Oui," Pierre agreed "There are not many royal weddings here. The whole country is on holiday."

"Unfortunately some European banks didn't know that. Thanks, no doubt, to the Bank of Corica's Thrush contingent. They have been unwittingly aiding Thrush in some financial transactions recently."

"I think we just found out what Victor Marton has been up to," Illya commented.

"We've informed all the financial institutions of the true situation in Corica, but I'm afraid some of the damage has already been done."

"They can't be operating from the bank; that's full of our people. Have you been able to trace the transactions?"

"Indeed we have." Waverly paused as if to check his information. "We were able to trace a telephone call in Paris. They seem to be based in a private residence just outside of Corica. The home of a Mr. Werner Klemhoffer."

"I know this place," Pierre told them.

"We'll get right on it." Napoleon signed off and called the agents at the bank.

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- END Act 18**

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=- Act 19:**** " . . . the birds have flown the coop."**

* * *

Napoleon parked the car where it wasn't visible from the house. It was a small, one story brick building just off the main highway and within 100 yards of the French/Corican border.

Solo and Kuryakin got out and circled around in opposite directions. Napoleon peeked into one of the front windows. Nobody seemed to be home. He sneaked up to the door. It was unlocked. No alarms rang, no booby traps sprang when he opened it. Gun drawn, he entered.

The living room was tastefully decorated, but messy. Papers littered the floor, a couple of folding chairs were overturned.

He heard a noise in back. He passed an office, a bathroom and a tiny bedroom on his way toward the source of the sound. All were as abandoned as the front room. Reaching the end of the hallway he approached the open kitchen door with his back to the wall before springing out, gun ready . . .

. . . and finding himself facing the business end of his partner's U.N.C.L.E. Special. He swung the barrel of his pistol toward the ceiling, removing Illya from his line of fire and his partner did the same.

"The basement's clear," the Russian informed him calmly.

"The rest of the house as well," his partner agreed. "Looks like the birds have flown the coop."

They both heard a car pull up outside.

"I think our back-up from the bank has arrived," the Russian commented, heading for the front door.

Napoleon let him pass. He didn't feel up to meeting other agents just after his case had fled the country. He turned and left to poke around in some of the back rooms.

A young Italian agent, ready for action, burst through the door, but quickly went to parade rest when he saw Kuryakin.

Illya gave some quick orders, and the agents split up to search the house. An hour later, nothing new had been uncovered except a note taped to a mirror in the front room that read 'Au revoir.'

* * *

**-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-=X=-**

* * *

"A most unfortunate affair, Mr. Solo," Waverly said over the communicator.

"Yes, sir," the agent agreed. He stood in a small study off the main ballroom of the d'Cote's villa. He could hear the sounds of people talking and music through the door from the reception. The party was going well, and now that the newlyweds were on their way, the burden was lifted from the U.N.C.L.E. agents.

All Napoleon intended to do, however, was finish his report and then go to bed. He could party later. He sighed to himself, one hour's sleep didn't go as far as it used to.

"Do they know how much damage was done?" he asked.

"Only an estimate. It looks as if Thrush has managed to siphon nearly three million dollars from the Bank of Corica."

He whistled. "That's quite a bit."

"Correct, Mr. Solo. The key to the plan was that the banks they were dealing with didn't realize that today was a Bank Holiday. And with actual bank officials to pull off the fraud, they were able to deposit millions of dollars into Thrush Swiss bank accounts."

"And it was all done by computer?"

"Correct again. Section Four has been postulating that as banking and finance are handled increasingly with computers, incidents such as this one will become more frequent."

"It sounds like Corica's going to need Gaverson's resources now more than ever."

"Indeed." Waverly paused before going on. "On a related subject, M. LeSalle of the French office is to be replaced immediately."

"That's a bit sudden."

"Not at all. If more weight had been put on agent Tulloh's reports on conditions in Corica, this whole fiasco might have been avoided. His warnings of Thrush infiltration in the Bank of Corica were virtually ignored. You might wish to relay this information to M. Tulloh."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to hear it."

"I trust we will see you back here in New York tomorrow."

_'Never a moment's rest,'_ he thought. "Yes, sir," he answered and signed off.

In the ballroom, elegantly dressed nobility and the simply rich sipped champagne and nibbled tiny and expensive hors d'oeuvres. Napoleon strolled through the crowd, looking for Pierre to pass on his news about the French U.N.C.L.E. office before he turned in.

"United National Corps of Lock Engineers." The phrase caught his attention, followed by several others. The 'typing pool' was back to their acronym game.

"Ultimate Networking Computer for Logarithmic Exercises."

"Let's see. Unified Nuclear Coalition of Latvian Emigrants."

"Underwater Naval Combatant Limpet Experts. Your turn."

"Ummm ... Universal Network of Clear Lunar Eclipse-watchers. Olga?"

Olga Wocial caught sight of Napoleon. "Unlikely Names for Crazy Libidinous Entities," she said.

Napoleon smiled sourly. "How about Unrelenting Nuts Clamouring to Leave Employment?"

"Napoleon Solo," Olga said scoldingly, "we are doing our job." Which was true enough. Section two agents often went under cover working for fictitious companies with U.N.C.L.E. initials when making a contact. It was Section Three's duty to come up with the names, or at least approve names thought up in other sections. Several ladies in Section Five had turned the practice into a game.

"And a good job you're doing, too." He smiled to show no hard feelings. "Keep it up."

He left the ladies and wandered further into the party. Over in a corner near the punch bowl, he saw Leslie apparently trapped by Lloyd King, Thea's uncle. Napoleon headed in the opposite direction. Leslie deserved another conversation about Texas after what she'd done to him on the plane. He scanned the room, spotted Pierre and told him the news about LeSalle. Tulloh was not only pleased, he was positively shocked.

"To say the truth about it, Napoleon, I had begun to think that U.N.C.L.E. was not capable of removing people like LaSalle. I was in the army before U.N.C.L.E.; I've seen cases like this. No one ever does anything about it."

Solo nodded. He'd been in the army too. "Waverly didn't tell me who was replacing M. LeSalle, but in any case, you will be staying here until this mess is cleared up. I think, however, that if you requested it, you could be assigned to the continental office in Section Two when Corica's on its feet again."

"Thank you, Napoleon. I will think about it. But now, with the change, I am not sure if I wish to leave Corica or not."

Napoleon smiled and headed toward the door. On his way out, he spotted his partner talking to the Polish servant he'd met at the brunch the day before. He and Leslie Goodlow, having freed herself from Lloyd, converged on the Russian just as the blonde floated away to serve more hors d'oeuvres.

"What did you say to Thea last night?" Leslie asked. Illya looked at her, pulling his mind off the servant. "She wanted me to thank you for your advice," she elaborated.

"Illya? Advice?" Napoleon said in surprise. "Did she say anything else?"

"Not really. She was mostly talking to Edward."

Illya smiled. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to elaborate, Leslie pulled something out of her purse.

"She also wanted to give this back to you." She held up Illya's wedding band.

"Thank you." He took it from her and slid it back onto his finger.

"Family heirloom? Self defense? Haunted past?" Leslie queried, hoping for a explanation about why he wore it. Illya studied her silently.

"Well, I gave it to the bride, temporarily. And you just gave it back to Illya from her," Napoleon explained.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Leslie asked.

"It's a wedding present."

* * *

******-=X=-=X=-=X=-** END **-=X=-=X=-=X=-**  


* * *

**Note: **This story, by authors A.R. Davenport and T. L Neill, was first published with the title 'The Princess and the Pea Affair' in the print fanzine, '11 & 2' No. 3, in December 1987.

**Disclaimer: **All characters and the U.N.C.L.E. universe belong to Arena Productions and MGM Television. I am just playing in their sandbox.


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